Frozen - A Dark Retelling
by Searlait
Summary: The movie retold, a darker exploration of the characters, their motives, their psychological states, and their fates. Two sisters who were once the best of friends, kept apart by forces beyond their control: when secrets are revealed and death seems imminent, will their isolation eternally define them, or can they find one another again in the darkest depths of winter?
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: I wanted to retell the story of ****_Frozen_**** from a more mature perspective - not in the sense of explicit material, but as a story that could explore more deeply the emotional/psychological themes of the characters and their experiences, without the cuteness of Disney (read: you won't find Olaf here). Some changes have been made, and yes, I am aware of them (as far as I know), even the little ones (like Anna and Elsa not sharing a room at the beginning of the story). I've picked and chosen what dialogue to retain and what to change based on how natural it feels to the story as I am writing it. Some characters you expect may not appear; some may appear in different guises or under different circumstances. I understand that some people might not enjoy this - for me, the writing and exploration of the characters has been amazingly enjoyable, so I hope it is for others as well, but I am sympathetic that it might not be everyone's cup of tea! I have several additional stories I would like to tell set within the _Frozen_ universe; this began as an exercise to prepare for those, and wound up spinning itself into something much more lengthy and complex than I initially anticipated.  
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**I do not own ****_Frozen_**** or any of the characters found therein; no profit will be made from this work, and it is done purely as a work of dedication to a spectacular film. **

* * *

**Prologue**

It was a kingdom about which there had always been dark stories. Perhaps that is true of any place removed from the world at large, existing seemingly outside the ebb and flow of everyday human existence, seen by few and truly experienced by even fewer. It was not a rich land, said visitors, but for a place so dark and remote, the people were proud, independent – and often very slow to trust outsiders.

These visitors brought with them descriptions of the land: the rugged, rocky hills; the dense pine forests that reached almost to the walls of the huddled little city. In the brief summers, the hills rolled like the sea in translucent green grasses and explosive rainbows of wildflowers. The days never ended, brambles were heavy with blackberries, and the fjord from which the city drew life was a deep, glistening cyan matched only by the sky. Traders came then from far lands, bringing exotic goods – chocolate, spices, coffee – to trade for furs and woven tapestries and cured wood, tough and strong.

But with winter came the rumors. Visitors deserted as snow began to fall and nights returned to the land – nights that would meld together and do away with the day almost entirely. The imposing faces of the mountains to the north, a picturesque snow-frosted backdrop in summer, became a menacing overlord as the blizzards moved in. Soon enough, the pines bowed and scraped before this god of rock, buffeted by screaming, grasping winds and bent to the icy ground by waves of snow, a writhing, traveling, frozen ocean. The fjord froze. And for another winter, all who remained wondered, each of them, who this year would live to see spring – if spring again every actually came.

And outside, far to the south, others sitting around their own (smaller) hearths, on long (but not endless), cold (but not so cold the air itself seemed frozen solid) nights, told stories of the north – of witches who sold their souls for dominion over the ice and snow, identifiable only by their long, frost-blackened fingers. Of trolls who worked magic spells in exchange for the lives of a family's children. Of monstrous beasts of sinew and snow who came down from the mountains and killed and devoured entire families in their beds, the disappearances only coming to light with the spring thaw.

This is what people said of the tiny kingdom of Arendelle. And what was true, and what was false, the reader must decide for himself.

* * *

Certainly, this much was known to be true: the young king, soon after taking his throne, fulfilled an arrangement to marry the eldest daughter of a barony to the west with which Arendelle had in the past been at odds over trade agreements. It was a purely political arrangement, actually reuniting two far removed branches of the same ancestral tree – the king and queen were very distant cousins. Perhaps they carried each one part of something that could only become a whole by their union, just as they would pass on blue eyes, freckles, narrow shoulders. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with either of them – after all, it only happened once.

The first child, heir presumptive until a brother came along, was born in the darkest depths of winter; she was several months old before festivities could begin to celebrate her birth. She was presented to all the right people – dignitaries, ambassadors, courtiers – who returned to their own lands with the expected report: a normal, healthy child, perhaps a bit scrawny but that might just be a result of the long winter; children need the sun. Blue eyes, they said, and her mother's dark hair. Quiet, they called her: almost solemn. Very keen, bright expression, and she very rarely cried.

And did they notice that the child was mostly pulled from public view even before the snow's return, or that she was of a sudden covered head-to-toe in blankets and caps and mittens, even on the warmest summer days? It seems likely that they did, being employed to notice and report on such things. Certainly, the people of Arendelle noticed, and speculated.

"Sickly, I'd say," was a common refrain in taverns and public houses. "Her mother's a puny one – makes for weak children."

"They're all puny from there." Meaning the barony to the west, to which all present would have hotly denied a genetic relation. They had nothing against the queen, but royal marriages were very different from their own.

"Think the little'un will make it through the winter?"

A shrug. "Made it through her first."

"Just hope she don't have anything catching."

So the conversation went, until it again grew cold enough that a well-wrapped royal child – or any child – was no longer so unusual. After her first year, the little princess was rarely seen, but that was more normal for the common people – they rarely saw the king and queen out and about, either.

For visitors to the castle, it was more noteworthy, threatening even to strike a sour note to diplomacy. Betrothals were often arranged, or at least negotiated, as soon as royal children were born. But on the few occasions this possibility was voiced, the king smiled and said there would be plenty of time for that yet. The queen said nothing of the matter, but whispers passed of dark circles beneath her eyes, of strange fears she had of bearing another child, as was her duty as wife of the king.

If asked, the tiny princess would be produced – briefly. She appeared healthy enough, those who saw her said, if still inclined to solemnity – though she had a shy, sweet smile, and already, before her third year, could drop into a perfect little curtsey. Her hair had lightened to a striking white-blonde, a sharp contrast to the brown she was born with, but it was common knowledge that many babies lost the down they had initially and what grew in might be wildly different.

Perhaps more reassuring to those who questioned her health were glimpses of the young princess when she had _not_ been asked to appear. She was occasionally seen peering from atop staircases or around doors left ajar, and if she knew she was spotted, would scamper away at a fast – clearly very healthy! - clip, sometimes leaving a brief, appealing little giggle in her wake. For all the dour faces, then, she had a mischievous streak. Maybe the king and queen were just very protective parents, the more generous courtiers mused. They certainly wouldn't be the first to worry over an only child, especially if the queen truly was reluctant to have another.

But three years after the first, as spring warmth slowly thawed away another winter's freeze, came a second daughter. With this one, no one had any doubts about her health – she squalled her way through the many festivities to mark her birth, waved hands and feet in apparent greeting at anyone she saw, and screamed herself purple if put down to sleep anywhere but in someone's arms; even then, she seemed to sleep far less than was normal. She smiled earlier than most babies, was walking by eight months, and was talking in sentences at a year. And unlike her elder sister, others saw her doing these things – though admittedly, it was hard to tell if this was at her parents' wishes, or if she insisted on being the center of attention. There was no doubt she stood out, with red-blonde hair bordering on orange and an evident desire to get to know everyone in any given setting.

And very, very occasionally, the two little girls were seen together in public. Invariably, they came in in marked contrast, younger pulling elder, eager. Younger introducing them both, quivering with excitement at the new people, new foods, new stories; elder usually looking at her feet, meeting eyes only out of courtesy, offering briefly that shy, sweet, sad smile.

And the rumors swirled right past them, the dark stories of which they were happily ignorant. Dark stories that would one day define them. Watch them now – running through the halls, hand in hand, laughing and happy and alone. Dark and light, winter and spring. Two little girls who have only each other. Watch them while you can, because they don't appear often.

Watch them. Hope for them. Because they will know the darkness soon.


	2. Chapter 1 Part 1

**PART 1: ISOLATION**

**Chapter 1**

With spring came the return of sunrise. Though the air remained bitter, though the little outside travel that was done still required walking through walls of tightly packed snow, the restoration of true days and nights meant it would all come to an end soon.

For ever-insomniac Anna, approaching – eagerly – turning five years old, dawn meant an excuse to no longer even pretend to be asleep. She had scrambled out of bed as soon as faint gray light illuminated the edges of the shutters on her window. Slippers on, because for what she wanted to do, Elsa required slippers – better than Mama and Papa; _they_ required boots.

She slid-scampered across the slick wood of the floors; she was getting better and better at balancing, and when she could slide all the way around the ballroom without falling, Elsa had promised to teach her how to ice skate. She was determined to learn before her birthday – two more weeks. Then, _on_ her birthday, she was going to show everybody – Mama and Papa didn't even know she'd been practicing! - and then they could all ice skate, even Papa who always said he was too busy to play.

The run between her door and Elsa's was always the trickiest part. That was when she sometimes got caught. She eased open the heavy door, peeked around, looked both ways up and down the long corridor. It was empty. She darted out, ran – then ran back to close the door. She always forgot. Then she got up some speed and slid all the way to Elsa's door. She giggled excitement and triumph, then clapped a hand over her mouth – mustn't be heard. Mustn't get put back to bed. That was the worst thing of all – bed was _boring_.

She pushed open Elsa's door, and this time remembered to close it. The room was dark – Elsa pulled the curtains across her window – and quiet, the only sound the low, rhythmic breath of deep sleep. Elsa always seemed to sleep well – she did everything well, it felt like to Anna, never getting scolded for slurping or leaving a mess or wriggling on her chair or staring dreamily out the window when she was supposed to be listening to her tutors.

Anna worshiped her. All she wanted was to be like Elsa – no matter how often she came up short. She told herself that when she was eight, like Elsa was, she would have it all down. Ice skating would be just the beginning.

She trotted across the room to Elsa's bed, clambered up, allowed herself the pleasure of falling face first into the blankets that Elsa, as always, had kicked off despite the chill. Elsa hardly stirred, so Anna had to shake her.

"Elsa!" She managed a whisper, but just barely. "Wake up! Elsaaa."

Elsa half rolled towards her, half opened one eye, made a little half-awake noise that might have been a query.

"C'mon, Elsa, wake up!" Shaking her again. "Elsa!"

The eye closed again. "Wha' time's it?"

"Morning. Really! The sun's up and everything."

Elsa squinted at the drawn curtains, then turned her head to face away from them. "Go back to sleep, Anna."

Anna thought for a minute, then decided yes, it was time for her secret weapon. She leaned over Elsa, who seemed to be mostly asleep again. "Do you want to build a snowman?"

Elsa's eye opened – fully, this time. She smiled.

* * *

It was a morning, a day, that Elsa knew would be etched in her memory, clear and cold and unbreakable, no matter how long her life might be. The day she lost her sister – her best friend, her constant companion. The one who saw joy and thrill and snowmen, instead of the death and destruction and terror of the winter that might never end. With Anna's eager happiness, she had almost believed she might one day learn to control it – control herself.

She crawled out of bed, put on her slippers – she didn't need them, but Anna would only wear hers if Elsa did – and checked for any sounds outside the door before opening it. If they were caught, both would be sent back to bed, but Elsa would be the one in trouble, because she was older and was supposed to set an example. So she made very sure the coast was clear, even though Anna was trembling with barely-contained excitement – and probably the cold Elsa had never really felt – beside her.

The hall was deserted. They ran. Anna at one point couldn't contain a giggle, but got herself under control when Elsa shushed her. They paused at every corner, Elsa checking that the way was clear before they scampered on, both of them trying not to breathe too harshly, to slap their feet too loudly in the echoing corridors, to do anything to give away their presence. Despite the early hour, there would be many people awake and about – servants setting fires and cleaning, messengers and deliverymen going about their duties with the castle always as first priority; it was very possible, even, that Papa and Mama were up. Papa often got to work very early, before there were too many immediate demands on his time, and Mama had the same trouble sleeping that Anna did.

There was one place in the castle where they could find a safe space and plenty of room to play – past the halls, down the grand staircase, and through the enormous gilt-and-oak doors that took both of them pulling with all their strength to open. They went to the ballroom.

On the steps leading down to the wide dance floor, Anna was hopping from foot to foot and clapping her hands, no longer able to control her excitement. "Do it, Elsa! Do it, do it!"

Elsa grinned – only with Anna did she do so, let herself enjoy the moment and the unbridled joy of her little sister. Only with Anna did she tease: "Do what? I thought we were here for lessons. Didn't you ask for extra math today?" She'd only just started learning, but Anna swore she would always despise arithmetic, and never, ever use it.

Now, she tried to look angry, but she couldn't, there was no way, and she was laughing and shouting, "No, no, no! Do the magic, Elsa, please, do the magic!"

And Elsa laughed too, because Anna's enthusiasm was infectious, and because of the adoration in those wide blue eyes, and most of all because here, she almost felt like there was nothing to worry about. "Alright – ready?"

Anna jumped up and down again, little red ponytails bouncing against her shoulders. "Ready!"

"Then – go!" Elsa drew her hands in, then flung them out dramatically, fingers splayed, while Anna hopped and laughed and clapped. Before the steps, growing from the moisture in the air, spinning and falling and settling on the floor, came snowflakes. Then Elsa stamped her foot, and ice spread across the floor, leaving it as smooth and sparkling as the fjord outside the castle walls. A swirl of her hands, and the snow piled into hillocks. It was still falling when Anna could no longer contain herself – she threw herself into the nearest, deepest pile, came up sputtering and laughing and with twinkling, frozen crystals in her hair.

"C'mon!" she called, rolling down the expanse and dissolving into giggles.

But for a moment, Elsa did not join her – she just watched from the steps. She felt suddenly, uncomfortably afraid. She crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her hands, as she looked out over what they had made: the snow, the ice, the frost climbing the walls and windows like vines. Below, Anna's face was already flushed with cold; she was trying to walk, but kept slipping and sinking in the snow, laughing so hard it was a wonder she could breathe.

Elsa had asked, at Anna's age or maybe even younger, what was wrong with her – why she wasn't allowed to meet people, why she didn't get to go to dinners and parties and festivals. "You're too young," Mama said. "Anna doesn't go either – plenty of time for that later for both of you, don't you think?"

"Anna's a baby," Elsa pointed out. "And I heard someone, one of those dukes, asking when they were going to see more of me. That's what he said, I heard him!" - because Mama was shaking her head.

"You're not to eavesdrop, Elsa." She sighed. "You'll understand better one day – I wish you didn't have to – but diplomacy is the most important part of Papa's job, and the most difficult. There is never a break, never a day off. And no matter how much we might wish it was otherwise, you – and Anna – are a very big part of that."

Elsa considered this – she knew what to say when brought before visitors, knew how to smile and curtsey and keep silent when the adults were talking. Had she once done something wrong? If she had, she had no memory of it. "But if they say they want to see me, then shouldn't Papa let them?"

Mama smiled – just a little. "Too smart for your own good, my little one. Yes, that may be true – because your father does get asked, more often than you have managed to overhear, if visitors might see you. The heir is almost as important as the king, particularly to those who seek alliances."

"What's an air?"

"_Heir_, darling. You are the heir – for now, at least. The kingdom will one day be yours."

Elsa remembered the queer feeling of this new knowledge – a mix of pride and confusion and something like fear. "I'm going to be a king?"

Mama laughed and said, "Queen, dear," which made her feel better – because she believed then that there would be someone else to be king and do the difficult jobs; by eight years old, she was no longer so sure, but was also a little afraid to ask.

But on that long ago day, she had returned doggedly to her original question: "But if I'm the ai-... the _heir_, don't I need to know everyone, like you and Papa do? Shouldn't I meet them?"

There was no more laughter, and Mama was silent for a long time. Finally, she knelt and took Elsa's small hands into her own. "Not everyone can do what you do, Elsa."

"What? What can I do?"

"The... the ice. Freezing things."

"They can't?"

The smile now was pained, and Mama shook her head. "No. No, they can't. And when one person can do things another cannot, sometimes that other person feels afraid."

"Why?" The uncomfortable feeling returned – and a moment later, Mama jerked her hands away as if burned... or frozen.

"Sorry, Mama," Elsa said quickly, and Mama hugged her, and she stopped asking questions because she didn't like how the answers made her feel. She had never thought about the ice as good or bad, and never really noticed that no one else did it. It was just part of who she was, like having blonde hair and blue eyes.

She had played with it sometimes after that, trying to figure out what it could do – then Anna got older and really pushed her. For Anna, there was no fear at all. Anna loved it.

But Anna, Elsa knew, had no sign of such powers herself – and knowing this, Elsa knew that Mama was right, and others couldn't do what she did. She didn't like that part, didn't like being so different. But was it true that others would be afraid? Maybe, like Anna, they could be shown the joy of it? Elsa didn't like to think about it, but she couldn't seem to help it. And when she worried, more ice crept away from her. She felt like she ran around and around in narrowing circles, until the day came when someone, or maybe her own actions, let slip the secret.

Watching Anna now gleefully begin to roll snow, she found herself wondering what would happen if a servant came into the ballroom right now and saw what was happening. She almost wished, at times, that someone would catch her – just to ease the tension, like waiting always for a promised punishment that never came. People in the castle's employ must have wondered over the years at the strange clean-ups in her room, frost-shattered windows and rugs soaked through from melted snow and ice – let them have the solution to the riddle!

"Elsa!" Anna shouted, breaking her from her thoughts. "Come help me! I'm making the snowman now."

Elsa finally now went down the steps and to Anna, running across the coating of ice on the floor in total confidence – she never slipped, never. She crouched with Anna in the snow, and together the sisters rolled giant snowballs, stacked them atop one another. They had nothing for a face or arms, so Anna poked eyes and mouth with her fingers. Elsa hid behind and pretended her own arms were the snowman's, waving and feigning confusions about having no legs until Anna started giggling so hard she gave herself hiccups.

They threw snowballs, slid across the ice, made pets for the snowman – a snow-dog, a snow-horse, though neither looked quite as realistic and easily identifiable as either girl might have hoped. By then, Anna's lips here looking a bit blue and the sun was strong enough to have begun melting the thick frost crisscrossing the windows. They would have to end their play soon.

But when Elsa said as much, Anna begged for "the catching game." This was a more recent invention, born of Elsa's newfound discovery that if she concentrated hard, she could conjure up ready made drifts of snow, not just flakes. Anna liked jumping from one to the next.

"I don't know," Elsa said, looking to the sunlight now falling bright through the dripping windows high above them. Most of the ice on the floor had melted as well, leaving scattered puddles. "It's getting late."

"Please, Elsa?" Anna had already clambered up the highest pile of snow, and was clasping her hands together, pleading. Her nightgown was soaked through and she was visibly trembling. "Please?"

One more glance at the windows. Then: "Alright. But quickly."

"Yea! I'll go fast, really fast!"

"Ready?" Elsa brought her hands up – this took more concentration than anything she had earlier done.

"Ready!"

She took a deep breath. "Go!"

Anna leapt into midair, trusting completely that Elsa would catch her. Elsa threw her hands up, again and again and again, as Anna jumped higher and higher, faster and faster. She laughed, exhilarated and thrilled, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

"Slow down!" Elsa tried to call – but her voice caught, her breathing too fast and shallow as she tried to keep up with her sister; afterward, she doubted that Anna had heard her at all. She ran, hands still raised because there would be no chance to pause, trying to keep up.

Anna threw her arms out – flying.

Elsa slipped.

She never slipped. _Never_. Her certainty of this echoed through her mind in the days, weeks, months that followed. She had never slipped.

But she did.

She let go one last burst from her hands as she went sprawling, landing so hard her breath was knocked from her, so she couldn't even scream. It happened in a second. It felt like eternity.

Anna never pulled her arms in, never opened her eyes, never stopped trusting in Elsa to catch her. The blast that should have been her safety hit her in the side of the head. She curled like a dying autumn leaf, landing on her side at the edge of a snowdrift. She didn't move.

Then, finally finding her breath, Elsa screamed. She scrambled on hands and skinned knees towards the tiny, still form of her sister. She gathered Anna into her arms, bundling her up like a baby, and repeated her name like a mantra - "Anna-Anna-Anna" - but there was no response. Anna looked as calm as if she were asleep, but her nightgown and slippers were soaked, her fingers and lips were blue, and a trickle of blood had escaped from her ear, bright as paint against her pallid, perfect skin. As Elsa watched, a pale snake slid through her hair, a mirror to the blood on her face – white on red, red on white.

Panic raced through her. Beneath her, ice spread again, racing now across the floor, climbing the walls. The ceiling frosted; snow fell. A wind kicked up, blowing the drifts into a maelstrom, crumbling the snowman and his snow-pets into nothingness. High above, the glass in one of the enormous windows cracked and shattered, shards of glass exploding like shrapnel on the floor.

Elsa tried to stand, to run out with Anna, but she was too heavy. Desperate, Elsa screamed for someone, for her parents, for Mama and Papa to come, get Anna, save Anna, make it better. She clung to Anna as the wind howled and the storm intensified. She sobbed for help.

The door flew open. She couldn't see through the swirling snow, but she could hear Papa shouting her name, and Anna's. Papa was here. He could fix it. Fix Anna.

"Here!" Elsa cried. "We're here!" But already, the wind and snow were settling, and she could see Papa, and Mama too, running across the ballroom to where she knelt with Anna still and silent in her arms.

Mama scooped Anna up. She clutched her, wiped the blood from her face, and then looked at Papa, distraught. "She's ice cold."

Papa looked down at Elsa, still on her knees in the ice and snow. He looked frightened, not angry – but seeing Papa afraid somehow made Elsa feel worse. Ice began again to spread beneath her, and a breeze sprang up.

Papa knelt and took her chin in his big, warm hand, forcing her eyes to his. "Elsa. Control it. _Control it_. What happened?"

Tears fell, froze as they hit the ground. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"It's getting stronger," Mama said.

"I know," Papa said. He got to his feet, taking Elsa's hand and pulling her up too. She stood beside him, silent save for her hitching, gasping sobs, looking at Anna limp and still in Mama's arms.

"What do we do?"

"I think I know – go and tell them to saddle horses." He put a hand on Elsa's shoulder. "For all of us."


	3. Chapter 1 Part 2

The ride through the dark, cold woods was ever after a blur in Elsa's mind. Papa wouldn't say where they were going, but he was pushing the horses to a gallop even on the rough, rocky ground, so Elsa knew how desperate was the journey. She rode with Mama, clinging to the saddle horn; Papa held Anna, wrapped head to toe in blankets, in one arm, and guided the reins with the other. Anna still had not woken up.

Any other time, Elsa would have found the journey fascinating – and she knew Anna would have too. They rarely got to leave the castle, and never ventured beyond the walls of Arendelle. Together, they might have marveled at the darkness of the forest, pointed out the steam of hot springs shooting from the earth, scared one another with visions of witches and giants and trolls hiding behind every tree.

But Anna saw none of it. Elsa pulled the ends of Mama's cloak around her, wanting desperately to feel safe, trying to tamp down her fear. To keep the ice away. To protect Mama and Papa and Anna, poor little Anna.

She tried not to think about Anna falling. Or about her never waking up again. But she couldn't seem to think about anything else. She almost wished Mama and Papa were mad at her and would tell her so, just to save her from her own thoughts. Yell at her, threaten her, make her cry. She deserved to cry.

Mama had said people might be afraid of her. If they were, maybe they were right to be.

They rode for hours, through the short early spring day and into the chill dusk. The land grew wilder – where before the woods were broken by meadows and farms and tiny huddled hamlets, now there were dark bogs and craggy caves like eyes watching them pass, encroachers on this primitive land. It _felt_ like they were being watched. Elsa huddled deeper into the cloak.

Over it all, a sentinel in this wild, unfriendly land, was the looming stare of the North Mountain, the tallest of the range that ringed Arendelle on three sides. It was the same mountain Elsa saw from her bedroom window. There, it was just a majestic colossus of year-round white, even on the warmest days of summer. Closer, Elsa could see the bare expanses of rocky cliffs and crags; stunted, twisted trees; even a waterfall emptying into an ice-choked, fast-running stream. As the sun sank, the snow on the mountain gleamed red and gold and orange, a sunset come to earth.

Anna would have loved it.

It was almost night when the man leapt onto the trail in front of them, crouching to block their way and wielding a sharpened wooden spear. The horses shied and Mama gasped, but Papa seemed ready for this sudden appearance – he quickly pulled the blanket from Anna so the man, if that's what he was, could see the small, still shape of her face.

"My daughter is very sick," Papa said. "We come seeking-"

"I know what you're seeking," the man interrupted. Elsa had never heard anyone interrupt Papa, not even Anna, who sometimes seemed permanently incapable of waiting for her turn to speak. "And you've come to the right place – your highness." There was something mocking in his tone that Elsa did not understand.

"A moment," he went on, and that was what it took before his spear somehow became a fire-lit torch, allowing Elsa to really see him for the first time. She shrank back against Mama, who put an arm around her.

The man was still crouched, and so twisted in shape that Elsa doubted he could have stood higher even if he'd wanted to. He was lumpy and misshapen – one leg grotesquely swollen and dragging, one arm and hand atrophied to a fleshless twig, his head engorged and lolling, seemingly attached directly to rounded shoulders rather than an unseen neck. His skin and wisps of hair were gray, but punctuated with scaly green patches that made Elsa think of lichen. He caught her staring and smiled, revealing teeth that were also encrusted with green.

"This way," he said, lurching away in a movement half a drag and half a scuttle. Papa's horse followed and, after a brief hesitation, Mama's did too. Elsa wanted to ask if they could wait on the trail for Papa to return, but decided it was best not to. What if the crawling man spoke to her?

The horses had to go more slowly now, whether Papa wanted to or not – the ground beneath the trees was pocked with sharp stones, uneven, and deep shadows hid protruding roots and nests of rocks. Their guide, though surprisingly swift on his dragging legs, seemed to twist and turn back on their earlier path, leading them in what felt like circles, though they never returned to any place Elsa could identify.

Finally, she couldn't wait any longer. "Where are we going, Mama?" she whispered.

"I don't know, little one."

"What's wrong with that man?"

Her voice was soft, hardly audible even to herself over the horses and the murmuring noises of the forest. The crouching man was well ahead of them. He couldn't have heard – but nonetheless he turned and grinned at her. Somehow, he stood out from the shadows, brighter now than the torch he held before him. "I'm a man of the mountains, dearie," he said, then turned and slid on.

"Shh," Mama said. "They won't hurt us."

"Who?"

"The men of the mountains."

"Who are they?"

"Trolls, though they do not like the name. There's very old magic here, Elsa."

Elsa shivered. Where the horse trod, a trail of ice twisted slowly in the forest. She looked down at it, took a deep breath, and tried to still her racing heart.

It seemed as though they walked for hours, though dusk still clung to the sky above the trees. Finally, the horses emerged into a clearing – an open, grassy space of hillocks rolling almost like a series of steps. The crouching man stopped there, thrusting the torch deep into the loamy earth at the edge of the forest.

"Wait," he said, and slid-walked around the clearing and disappeared from view.

Papa climbed down from his horse, Anna still cradled in his arms. If she was awake, Elsa thought, she would be so excited by all this. She would call it an adventure.

Elsa took another deep, calming breath, trying not to cry. If Mama noticed the ice when she helped Elsa down from the horse, she didn't say anything – but she put her arm around Elsa's shoulders as they walked to Papa: maybe for comfort, but maybe more to make sure she wasn't about to hurt anyone else. She wondered if Mama was one of the ones who was afraid of her. She wondered if she would be right to be afraid. But Elsa moved away from her touch. She went to Papa and stood on tiptoe to see Anna, still all wrapped up in that thick cocoon of blankets. Elsa reached out, intending to stroke her sister's cheek.

Papa stepped back.

It was just a small step, and he quickly smiled at her as if it meant nothing. But Elsa knew, instantly – he didn't want her touching Anna. She crossed her arms, just as she had done in the morning while Anna – so full of life! - slid and clambered in the snow; she tucked her hands away so they could not hurt anyone else.

"Do you really think they can help?" Mama asked.

"I hope so," Papa said. "I don't know who else can."

They lapsed, as a family, into an uncharacteristic silence, with no Anna to pepper them with questions about everything. She was never quiet; it sometimes drove Elsa crazy. But there was nothing now except the sunset noises of the forest. Elsa huddled close to Mama and Papa. Papa didn't step away from her again. They waited.

When the torch suddenly flickered, Elsa jumped. All around the circle, similar flames sprang up, though she saw no one lighting them. She grabbed Mama's hand and hid her face against her cloak, not caring if she looked like a baby.

When she looked out again, the ring of torches cast deep shadows into the bowl of the clearing – and in the shadows, something was moving. It undulated and writhed and turned in on itself. For a moment, Elsa thought it was a giant, as wild and misshapen as the man who had brought them here. Then the light fell on the head of the mass – and Elsa realized it was many people, if people was what they were, coming out of the forest and across the clearing towards them.

Some were as grotesque as the crouching man, or somehow even worse – one used his arms to propel himself along, his feet no more than stumps hanging from his torso; another had a second, tiny, headless body attached to her chest, just below the heart. Many – maybe most – could not walk properly, their legs deformed or nonexistent or their spines twisted into strange shapes like runes. A few, though, were almost normal, walking upright with complete arms and legs – but Elsa could see as they grew clearer in the torchlight that their skin was still stone gray and all had the strange, rashy green patches.

The most agile-appearing group reached them, and one turned his back to them and raised his hand high into the air – his hands and arms were long and thin, the tips of his fingers almost touching the ground. When he again turned around, Elsa could see that he was a very, very old person indeed, with only a few wispy hairs, skin that drooped and wrinkled like cloth, and sloping, sad eyes. At his gesture, all the things following him stopped. They waited below in complete silence, complete stillness.

The old man turned again. "I am Pabbie," he said. "And you are the newest king of the gated city of Arendelle."

"Yes," Papa said. "But my daughter-"

The hand went up again, and Papa fell silent. "The young princess Anna. Yes, I see."

He reached out, gently pulled the blankets away from Anna's head, and ran one twig-like finger down the pale stripe in her hair. His finger pressed against her temple, and he turned his head as if listening for something. "Magic," he murmured, then looked at Papa, at Mama, and finally down at Elsa. He stared at her for what felt like a very long time. "Yours," he said.

She shrank back against Mama, afraid he might try to touch her as he had Anna. She didn't want to feel that rough skin.

But Pabbie looked to Papa. "Born, or cursed?" he asked.

"Born," Papa said. "And it's getting stronger."

Pabbie looked at her again, long enough that she shifted her feet and turned her eyes to the ground, uncomfortable. When she raised them, he was probing Anna's temple again. For a long time, there was only silence, everyone watching. Pabbie's long fingers skittered beneath Anna's hair, dancing across her scalp in patterns Elsa could not follow. At some point, he began to chant, a whisper that seemed to turn to guttural, animal noises. None of it was intelligible.

Above them, above the trees, the northern lights twisted and spun through a rainbow of colors, brighter and closer than they had ever seemed before. Elsa found herself staring up at them, transfixed. There were shapes in the sky, pulling apart like the shadowy mass of people coming across the clearing: A woman, blue and white, and bright snowflakes danced from her hands. A castle of green, turning white and crumbling to sparkles against the night sky. A band of men with spiked weapons, blood red, and when they raised the weapons high, converging on the woman, they all merged and swirled across the sky, obliterating everything that was there before.

For a moment, the sky glowed crimson, afire. Elsa gasped – and so did Anna.

Elsa tore her eyes from the carnage above, looking for her sister, momentarily blinded by the unexpected darkness – the torches had all gone out. Finally, she found what she sought in the dimness – Anna's eyes were still closed, but her face was scrunched up as if she were about to cry. Then she turned against Papa, settled, and her face smoothed into sleep, real sleep, with none of the unnatural stillness of before.

"She will remember none of the magic," Pabbie said softly.

Before she could think about what she was doing, Elsa spoke to him for the first time: "She won't remember I have powers?"

Pabbie shook his head. "I could not remove the damage without the memories as well, Princess Elsa. She will remember the fun of your play – but not the magic that brought it."

"What about Elsa?" Mama asked. "If you can remove the magic from Anna, what about from Elsa?"

Another shake of the head. "No. I'm sorry. It is a part of who she is, an integral part. I could not remove it and keep her alive."

Elsa shivered at that. Pabbie looked at her again. He smiled, and she felt suddenly almost safe – but also sad. He was going to speak to her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

"Elsa," he said – and she noticed he did not now call her princess. "There is great beauty in your magic, but also great danger. It will grow stronger. There will come a time when you must decide if you will control it, or allow it to control you."

Elsa nodded, because she didn't know what to say. She looked away, and realized only then that the sun was coming up. They had been here all night, though she could remember almost none of it: the fingers in Anna's hair; the animal, guttural chanting; the lights in the sky. But that was not enough time, not nearly enough for an entire night. She wondered if she would remember what Pabbie had just said to her. Or any of it. Maybe it would be better if she didn't.

Maybe she wouldn't feel so afraid.

Pabbie looked different in the light – his fingers really were like twigs, his face a series of broken, craggy, lichen-spotted rocks. And below, all the others, still waiting and silently watching, might have been part of the landscape – there a fallen tree; closer, a boggy bare patch of land. If she hadn't known they were there, Elsa doubted she would even have seen them. This was a kind of magic, too.

"Thank you," Papa was saying. "Thank you so very much. If ever Arendelle can help you in return, know I will see to it myself that you are aided."

Then they were on their horses and away again. Elsa's head felt muddled and fuzzy and it was hard to think, and Anna's sleep was more restless now: she fidgeted and murmured and tried to turn in Papa's secure arm. Near the walls of the city, she finally woke, querulous and complaining of hunger.

Elsa missed her waking. She had drifted off herself, still clutching the saddle horn as if it were the only thing keeping her firmly fixed in life as she had always known it.


	4. Chapter 2

**I really, really, _really _appreciate all the reviews, favorites, and followers - thanks, guys! It's been a long time since I've put up anything for anyone to read online, and I'm thrilled that people are enjoying it. I'm the kind of person who's inclined to reply via PM to every reviewer just to say "thanks," but I've been told that's weird, so here's a group thank you: I love your kind words, thank you so much! I particularly appreciate the feedback from those who have reviewed more than one chapter or who have offered words of encouragement even if this type of story isn't necessarily their thing. You don't know how much it means, all of you. Thank you. :)**

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**Chapter 2**

For some reason, everything changed. At first, it was kind of exciting – stuff being moved, packed away, given to those who were leaving (though the leaving was something else she didn't understand). The downstairs windows looking out over the fjord or the city were covered like they were in winter, though the courtyard ones were left alone. There were only two tutors kept – unfortunately, they still covered history _and_ arithmetic – and lessons were now held separately. The ballroom was locked up, as were the main dining hall, the receiving rooms, and the grand parlor. The butler stayed, and Papa's letter-writing man, and Mama's parlor maid, and some of the cooks and servants and a few groundsmen to care for the horses and the greenhouses and the courtyards. But most of the downstairs maids and the scullery maids and the stablehands and the rector and the kitchen boys and serving girls – they were all gone.

Anna was in the thick of all the sudden change – getting underfoot of the men with the window coverings, carrying boxes (the little ones) to stack in the closets, watching from the doorway as people left, calling goodbyes and begging promises that they would come back to visit. She didn't know why it was happening, nobody would tell her anything, but it was all too exciting to miss and nobody had forbidden her from taking part – so she did. She'd hardly seen Mama and Papa at all – they were shut away in Papa's private study, all the time it felt like, and she knew she wasn't allowed to bother them there.

But despite the excitement, there were some disquieting things, too. Like the morning she'd gone running to Elsa's room to tell her about the window coverings going up, but Elsa wouldn't answer, even though Anna _knew_ she was in there. She dismissed it that first time – maybe Elsa was still asleep. She hadn't seemed to feel good for a few days, so maybe she was sick and staying in bed until she was better. Anna always had to stay in bed when she was sick, even if she didn't want to.

But the next day, it happened again. And the day after that, when Anna knocked, Elsa said, "Go _away_, Anna." It was her annoyed voice, even though Anna hadn't done anything annoying, just knocked until she got a response.

There were other things, too.

She noticed first the quiet in the halls – every footstep seemed to echo like a musket shot. There were no longer shouts from the servants, or singing as they did laundry, or orders called from upstairs to down. Of those in the household staff who remained, they all seemed to speak in harsh whispers now, running after one another rather than raising a voice even for a moment.

This new quiet, combined with the gloom of the covered windows, made rooms and corridors Anna had known her whole life suddenly feel uncomfortable and strange. She didn't like being out if she didn't know someone else was nearby, where before being alone had always seemed wonderfully exciting. One night she had a nightmare that a man made of rocks and trees was coming to get her, and when she woke up, trembling in the darkness of her bedroom, she was too scared that he might be waiting for her in the dark corridor to go out and find someone to protect her, even Elsa right next door. She knocked tentatively on the wall they shared, but there was no response.

It was a long time before she was able to fall asleep again.

Then there were lessons – there was a smaller library that had by long custom served as a schoolroom for the royal children, and Elsa and Anna both went there each day, sharing the space despite the differences in what they were learning. When Anna mixed up her numbers or struggled with reading long words, she always felt better after an encouraging smile from Elsa, who seemed to magically know when she would need it.

The first morning Elsa didn't show up, Anna used this as additional evidence that she must be sick. Elsa never missed lessons. Neither of the remaining tutors seemed concerned, though, so Anna wasn't either. But when most of a week passed, she finally asked where Elsa was – and was told Mama had requested, on Elsa's behalf, that she should have private lessons from now on. The tutors seemed surprised that Anna didn't know this.

After those first few days, Elsa did finally come out of her room – sometimes. It was often because Mama and Papa made her, usually on those rare nights when Papa had time to eat with them, or when Elsa had something she couldn't avoid doing. There was less of that, though – before, for instance, she'd had etiquette lessons she hated _almost_ as much as Anna hated arithmetic, but those had stopped. Anna's had never even started.

The first time Elsa came out – at least the first time that Anna knew about – was in the evening; Anna had been out in the courtyard all afternoon, where the snow as finally melting and there was the possibility – or so Anna had hoped – that wildflowers might be growing in the muddy ground. She hadn't found any, but she had come in with a lot of the mud – she wasn't sure how it had managed to get in her _hair_ – and Mama sent her off to wash up and change clothes before dinner. She was hurrying because they were having frikadeller, and that was one of her favorite foods in the whole world.

For a long time, they stared at each other – Anna mud-splattered, one stocking torn at the knee, wearing one of last year's dresses; Elsa like a miniature version of the queen she would one day be, in a dress that fell to her shins, clean shoes, her hair sleekly held back from her forehead under a cloth band that matched the belt on her dress. Anna grinned, delighted, and felt dried mud cracking on her cheeks.

For just a moment, it looked like Elsa was going to laugh at her – and she wouldn't even have minded. But Elsa swiftly adjusted her composure, gave Anna a fleeting, impersonal little smile, and walked away. By the time Anna realized what had happened, Elsa was halfway down the hall, walking much more swiftly than before.

Anna's elation, at the warmth of the day and playing outside and seeing Elsa, deflated; shoulders slumped and telling herself it wasn't worth crying over, she watched until Elsa disappeared around a corner. Though everyone was at dinner, even Papa, nobody seemed to have much to say. Elsa ate quickly, and asked to be excused. Anna hardly tasted the frikadeller.

A few days later, Elsa was out again – coming back from the grand library with an armful of particularly boring-looking books. Anna was determined to make amends for whatever she had done to make Elsa mad, and this looked like the perfect chance to do so. She ran to catch up with her and half-jogged to meet Elsa's hurried, longer-legged stride.

"Hi, Elsa," she ventured. "Are you feeling better?" Just in case it had been an illness.

No response.

She tried again: "Are those fun-books or school-books? Will you read me a story?"

A quick headshake. Elsa was walking even faster. Anna had to run to keep up.

"What are they about?"

Elsa sighed. "They're not story books," she said.

"What, then?"

"History."

"What kind of history?"

Another sigh, louder. "Just history."

"Why?"

Elsa stopped, turned. Her lips were tight with anger, but her eyes looked afraid. "Anna, just stop! Leave me alone!" Then she ran, stumbled and almost dropped her books, continued at a rapid walk with her head down.

Anna didn't follow. There didn't seem to be any reason to. She too looked down, thinking hard, trying to figure out what had just happened. A glint of something caught her attention – there was ice on the floor. She poked it with the toe of her shoe – it moved, already melting.

But Elsa's inexplicable anger held her attention. She quickly forgot about the ice.

Then came her birthday – finally, five years old! It was warm enough that Mama and Papa said they could eat out in the courtyard. There were no lessons for her that day, so she wandered the castle looking for everyone who still lived and worked there, and told them she was five so they could wish her a happy birthday.

She helped stir the batter for the little cakes they were making in the kitchens. Two of the remaining serving girls let her pick a chocolate from a box their gentlemen friends had given them; the one she picked had orange in the middle, which she'd never had before but liked very much. She rode one of the gentler horses – alone! - around and around the yard just outside the stables. She ran her fingers through the pond in the inner courtyard, chasing the goldfish, and nobody told her not to. Until evening, it was a very good birthday.

The evening, too, started out well – the normal spring festival was not going to be held that year (something else Anna didn't understand), so Mama had suggested a miniature one for her birthday. The courtyard was lit by lanterns of colored glass, symbolizing nature's return to color after the long winter months. The special silver plates and cups had been brought out. Each cup had a tiny wildflower, dried and pressed, inside it – someone had been able to find some! - to swallow with the first drink of spring. Dinner was to have courses, just like Mama and Papa's formal events with important visitors.

But best of all, there were games, like at the carnival – quoits, sacks for races, coin toss, one Anna didn't think she'd played before that looked like it involved a blindfold, which was exciting. Anna, finally released to go out, ran from one thing to the next, delighted. And all the games needed at least two people, she thought, which meant-

"Is Elsa coming?"

Mama and Papa exchanged looks Anna did not know how to interpret. "She's been asked to come, yes," Papa said.

"Is she mad at me?" It was a question she'd been reluctant to ask for the better part of two weeks, afraid of the answer – but she couldn't stand it anymore.

More looks. "No, I don't think so," Mama said. "She's just having... a difficult time right now."

"Be patient with her," Papa said. "I don't think she's mad at you, and I don't think this will last."

"Maybe games will help." Before she went to her room and never came out, Elsa had been teaching Anna to play chess. Elsa liked games.

"Maybe so," Papa agreed – but Anna wasn't sure he really meant it.

She practiced quoits for awhile on her own, then the first course of food arrived, and she and Papa and Mama had their spring drinks – Anna's was water flavored with lemon, and she swallowed her flower on the first sip, which meant good luck all year. The first course was a salad, which she really didn't like, but she ate at least a bite of everything, even the tomato, because that was the grown-up thing to do.

Elsa came just before the soup. She was dressed up again, and now wore gloves despite the warmth of the evening. That was strange, because Elsa never seemed to be cold, even when everyone else was, but Anna was too excited to give it more than cursory attention.

She almost rose from her seat, but restrained herself to a little bounce and a wave. "Elsa! C'mon! You missed the salad, but there's still lots more. I ate a tomato!"

Elsa gave her that same distracted, short-lived smile she had at their chance meeting in the hallway. She went and sat next to Mama, even though there was an empty chair right next to Anna.

Anna tried not to get annoyed, but it was getting harder. "I like your gloves, Elsa," she said.

Elsa actually momentarily met her gaze – she looked startled, almost embarrassed. Then she looked at Papa – he nodded at her; more Anna didn't understand! - then back to her lap. Her hands, clad in those pretty white gloves, disappeared below the table. "Thanks," she murmured.

"You're welcome." Anna looked at her parents. "Can I have some gloves too?"

"I think we could get you some gloves," Mama said.

"Can mine be red? No – purple! Can mine be purple?"

And so the rest of the meal went – Anna talked, Mama and Papa answered, Elsa stared at her lap and picked at her food in silence. Nobody tried to make her talk, but Anna saw Mama and Papa looking at her a lot. They also looked at each other. And no matter how many things she tried to remember from the last few weeks, Anna could think of nothing that should have made Elsa so upset. One day, they had been playing outside in the last of the snow; the next, Elsa would hardly speak to her.

By the time they got to dessert – little cakes and fruit tarts, and Anna was allowed to have one of each – she wasn't feeling as happy as she had been for most of the day. She didn't know if the should run around the table and give Elsa a hug, or run around the table and kick her in the shin. Elsa shook her head to dessert.

Then Anna – finally! - got her presents: new boots from Papa, a set of watercolor paints all the way from France from Mama, a book of fairy tales from them both.

Then Papa said, "Elsa, do you have anything for your sister? You two acted like you had a great secret for today – I've been looking forward to finding out what it is!" And that was when everything fell apart.

Elsa looked up, glanced swiftly from Papa to Anna; she was wide-eyed, stricken. It made no more sense to Anna than anything else she had done tonight or anytime recently. Still, Anna jumped in to save her, in case she'd forgotten: "Ice skating! She's going to teach me ice skating!"

"That sounds lovely," Mama said, and Papa nodded. Elsa had her head down again, her eyes squeezed shut – closing out all of them.

"But Elsa," Anna said, a new thought occurring, "you said we would show Mama and Papa tonight. You promised! But we haven't practiced _and_ there's no ice."

"Be quiet, Anna," Elsa said. Her eyes were still shut. "We can't do that. I shouldn't have promised."

"But-"

Her eyes flew open; her gloved hands came up, balled into tight fists. "Anna, _be quiet_."

But finally, Anna's temper flared. "No! You _promised_! I haven't done anything and nobody will tell me what's going on and you're supposed to be my _friend_!"

"Girls-" Papa said, but too late – Elsa stood so quickly her chair fell over, and she fled from the courtyard.

Anna burst into tears. She couldn't help it. She was angry and sad and frustrated and confused, and that was more than she could emotionally handle. She hadn't done anything wrong. And she missed Elsa – so much.

"I'll go talk to her," Papa said, and he left. So half her people were gone. They hadn't played any of the games.

Mama came around and soothed and rocked; it was babyish, but just then Anna kind of wanted to be a baby.

"Why is she mad?" she asked, her voice thick, her face pressed against Mama's shoulder – she wanted comfort. "Papa said she wasn't mad, but she _is_!"

"I don't think she's mad, and your father doesn't either," Mama said. "Elsa is trying to figure some things out. Give her a bit of time."

"I want to help!"

"I know you do, little one. And when she's ready, I hope she will accept that."

Later, after carrying her presents upstairs, washing, and dressing for bed, Anna walked down the hall to Elsa's room. She was determined – if Elsa was upset, then Anna would help her figure out how to make it better. Because Elsa was her best friend.

She knocked and waited. Then she knocked again.

Finally, she put her face right at the keyhole. "I'm sorry, Elsa. Please will you be my friend again?"

There was no response.


	5. Chapter 3

**Special thanks to FrozenRose1 for some assistance in deciding whether I'm going the direction I think I should be going and hope I'm going - I appreciate it! Particularly since it was such a random request from me to get it. Also thanks again to everyone else who has reviewed; I'm trying to find time to _quid pro quo_ for everyone, but it takes me awhile - I'm working on it! In the meantime, you're all amazing. Thanks! **

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**Chapter 3**

Elsa watched people leaving from her window. She occasionally saw Anna down there as well, that bright hair unmistakeable, running about the outer yards, probably making a nuisance of herself. When she no longer appeared, Elsa knew the gates had been shut.

For good.

Because of her.

All those people walking away – they all had new jobs, thanks to Papa, but what if they didn't want to go? What if they had new jobs that were horrible? If they knew it was Elsa's fault, they would all hate her.

She heard the changes inside, at least some of them – the thuds of window coverings being hammered into place, the thumps of doors being barred. Her little world was getting even smaller. So was everyone else's.

All her fault.

She almost lost her already unsettled calm the first time Anna came knocking. She knocked twice, said, "Elsa?", waited and knocked again. Elsa was at her window, her hands on the sill. When frost began to creep up the glass, she jerked back and took deep breaths, tried to clear her mind as Papa had taught her to do.

By the time she felt in control of herself again, Anna was gone.

But she came back the next day. And the next. And each time, there was the same struggle, the same little hints at all the damage Elsa might do – ice on the windows, on the floor. When a thick frost crawled up the book she had been trying to read, she finally lost her temper and yelled at her sister.

After that, it snowed in her room for most of the morning while she huddled on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest and trying to cry quietly enough that no one would hear her. It was not what she knew she should be doing, but she couldn't seem to stop.

Papa and Mama had come to her room the day after she hurt Anna. They wanted to talk about what they could do to make things better – all of them, as a family, they said. For everyone, they said.

"Then why can't Anna know? She's part of the family," Elsa said. She was tired, even though she'd slept for several hours after getting home, and petulant.

"Anna's still very young," Mama said. "We'll tell her, Elsa – when she's old enough to really understand."

"You mean when she's old enough to know she should be afraid of me."

"No, Elsa-"

"What's going to happen?" She started to cry, tears she had been suppressing a day and a night and another day. "I'm scared, Mama – I don't want to hurt anyone else!"

But it was Papa who came to her – kneeling and taking her hands, though she knew they must be frigidly cold. "Calm, Elsa," he said softly. "Calm."

She took several hitching breaths, she trembled – but the room slowly warmed again. She sniffled, leaned and wiped her face on her sleeve – an Anna-like thing to do, but she didn't want to pull her hands back. She wanted Papa to make it all go away.

"Good girl," he said. "Now – I want you to try something for me. Will you try?"

She nodded.

"When I was just a bit older than you, my father was going to take me with him to hold court. I was _terrified_. They had to drag me out there. I was trying to hold on to anything I could – door frames. Light fixtures. The occasional ill-placed servant."

Elsa couldn't help it – she giggled. Just a little bit.

Papa smiled and squeezed her hands. "You don't believe me, but it's true. Finally, they sent my father himself to get me. I thought he would be mad – he didn't like anyone wasting his time. But he wasn't. He told me it was okay to be afraid – until the very moment I went before people who needed to know I was brave and wise and just. They didn't want to see a scared little boy, they wanted to see a prince they would feel safe having as a king. Do you know what he taught me to do?"

Elsa shook her head.

"He told me to say to myself, 'Conceal, don't feel. Don't let it show'. To remind myself that the emotions I felt, no matter how strong, were mine, and I could control them. And you can do the same. I know you can."

"Conceal," Elsa said, trying it out. "Don't feel."

Papa nodded and smiled, reassuring her. "Say that if you feel like you're going to lose control. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, Papa." She hesitated, then asked the question that had been consuming her: "Does everyone hate me now?"

"Why would you think that?" Mama asked.

"Everything's all messed up. People are leaving and they're covering the windows and Anna thinks I'm mad at her and-"

Papa squeezed her hands again, drawing her back. "Remember. Conceal. Don't feel."

"No one hates you, darling," Mama said. "Everyone understands that sometimes things change."

Elsa looked down at her hands in Papa's. "Anna doesn't."

"We're just trying to keep you both safe," Mama said.

Elsa nodded, but she didn't look up. She had decided something, but she wasn't sure she would be able to express it without getting upset. She would practice how to explain it. Because now, she had plenty of time for things like that.

After their journey into the woods, after Anna had been hurt, she had finally understood that Mama and Papa were scared of her, just as Mama had warned her others might be – maybe not scared for themselves, but scared for Anna. She had seen Papa step away from her. Mama's first question to Pabbie had been about removing her powers. They were afraid she would hurt Anna again.

Anna was a nuisance and a chatterbox and often silly – but she was also Elsa's little sister. If Mama and Papa thought she might hurt her again, then Elsa would do what they must want her to do and stay away from Anna. As long as it took her to learn to control herself, she would stay away. No more best friends.

And when she did learn to control it, maybe everything could go back to the way it had been before.

"Oh – I brought you something," Papa said, pulling a tiny box from the pocket of his coat. "I hoped these might help." He opened the box.

Gloves – a little pair of white gloves. A week before, she would have been excited and pleased. Now, knowing what they meant, she was almost afraid to touch them. They were shackles.

Papa helped her put them on. They were silk, miniature versions of the ones Mama wore to formal events in summer. It felt strange to wear them – on the most frigid days, Elsa's hands never got cold. She was gazing at them, turning her hands and trying to get used to the way they looked and felt, when Papa said, "Remember-"

She looked up and spoke the words with him: "Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let it show."

The first few days after that, she took the gloves off a lot – they itched. Then she decided that maybe they could be a test of control, and made herself leave them on for an hour, then two, then three. Leaving them on all morning left her briefly happy – satisfied – for the first time in days.

That was where her first plan started – a way to conquer any uncontrollable inclinations, teach herself discipline, and maybe also not feel so desperately lonely and miserable for a little while: she set herself challenges.

She taught herself to braid her hair and gather it atop her head, the way Mama wore it. That took two days. She learned to jump on one foot, then the other, then back and forth and in circles, even though it made her feel a little silly (and a little sad, thinking of how Anna would laugh to watch her). Three days. She memorized a poem of 34 lines. One day. She wrote her own poems, then edited and rewrote them on the nice parchment paper Mama had given her for her last birthday. Two more days.

Of course, that wasn't all she did – she asked Mama if lessons could be moved to her room, and they were, so she had those for half a day every day, and there was more work for them that she did on her own afterward. Always a fastidious student, she was now almost obsessively neat and thorough, because it was another good way to pass the time. She read and re-read from her books, made notes in the margins to summarize it all. Every composition she copied until she was sure her grammar and spelling were perfect. She recited her times tables again and again, pacing up and down her room, and had the whole through nines memorized in a week when she'd only been assigned through fives. When asked to learn the names and general locations of Arendelle's neighboring kingdoms, she instead copied the map until she could draw it from memory.

Then someone must have spoken to Mama, because she came to visit with one of the maps Elsa had drawn. She didn't seem upset, but she did look worried. "Your tutors are concerned, Elsa," she said.

"But there aren't any mistakes," Elsa said. "I checked."

"That's what they're concerned about. You must allow yourself to make mistakes sometimes – no one can be perfect."

That didn't sound quite right to Elsa, but she wasn't sure why. Was she meant to make mistakes on purpose? Mistakes could mean people got hurt. That was what she wanted to avoid – hurting anyone else. What if she did it again? What if they couldn't make it to the men of the mountains, or if they got there too late? Next time, whoever she hurt might die. Anyone who had lived through an Arendelle winter knew cold could kill.

As if reading her mind, Mama said, "It's not the same, Elsa. You won't injure anyone if you misplace Stockholm on a map."

"I'm the heir," Elsa said. "I need to know that."

Mama almost smiled. "It's Anna I expect obstinacy from, not you."

It clearly wasn't a rebuke, but Elsa still said, "Sorry, Mama."

"If you're smart enough to do _this_" - Mama held up the map - "then you're smart enough to understand what I'm telling you."

"Yes, Mama." For a moment, she had thought she might argue, be persistent in stating her own case. She had wanted to. But when weighed against being seen as good and obedient rather than dangerous and frightening, good and obedient won – because people who were good and obedient were not hated by their own families.

"The most important thing right now," Mama went on, "is that you take care of yourself. Don't push yourself too hard, little one."

"I won't."

Then Mama asked her to join them for dinner, and Elsa knew she was being told to come, not requested. After Mama left, she spent as long as she could picking out clothes to wear, and making sure everything was just so: her dress and belt complementary shades of yellow, her stockings unbunched, her shoes clean and polished to a shine, her hair sleek and neat under a band that matched her belt. And her gloves, of course. But maybe not of course – her hands were itching too much. She left them off. Just tonight. The preparations swallowed up some empty time, but even more, it made her feel temporarily completely in control of herself.

Before she went out – for the first time in over a week – she took a deep breath, remembering her father's story about what others needed to see, trying to calm her racing heart. "Conceal it," she said softly. "Don't feel it." And she went out before she could lose her nerve.

She was shocked at how dark and empty the castle seemed – it felt like a place long abandoned. Already, she could see that a layer of dust had settled on the wall sconces and the moldings. And though she knew it was silly, she was glad she had worn soft shoes, so her steps did not echo quite so loudly.

In the hushed silence, she couldn't miss the sudden clatter of someone else's footsteps – familiar, frenetic, thudding through the halls like a galloping horse. She heard Anna coming in plenty of time to flee, but didn't do so – she wanted suddenly, desperately to know what Anna would do when she saw her, how she felt.

To know if Anna hated her. Like she should.

Anna came pelting around the corner as if something were chasing her, muddy from head to toe. Her black boots were brown. There was even mud in her _hair_. Her dress was too short. The dried muck in her hair made it stand out at crazy angles.

When she finally saw Elsa – when they almost collided – her face lit up, and she grinned, sending little cracks through the dirt on her cheeks. She looked ridiculous. And she clearly wasn't angry – not at all. She looked thrilled to see Elsa.

Between Anna's absurd appearance and relief that she wasn't mad, Elsa almost had to allow herself to laugh at her little mud-creature sister. She wanted to ask if Mama and Papa had seen her. She wanted to tease that Anna must have forgotten they were having portraits painted tonight.

Then the fear came back, snuffing out that brief elation, reminding her harshly that such things – laughing, teasing – could only be hers when she learned to control herself.

Conceal, don't feel.

She smiled, so Anna would know she wasn't mad either, and walked away. Told herself that that was enough, Anna would understand. But when she reached the family dining room, she realized she had very little appetite. Worse, Anna appeared to have lost hers, too – and Elsa knew that was probably her fault. Anna still had rivulets of dried mud in her hair and crescents of it under her fingernails.

As soon as she thought Mama and Papa would allow it, Elsa asked to be excused. If she wasn't there, maybe everyone would stop being so miserable.

Over the next few days, she did some experimenting – trying to start and stop her powers. Something had changed, she realized then: she had always (or at least as long as she could remember) been unable to control them when she got upset. But she _had_ been able to start and stop and choose snow or ice just by thinking about it when she was playing with Anna. Now, when she tried to do that – heart pounding, breath shallow – nothing happened. If she tried until she got frustrated, there would be the usual frost, ice, cold wind until she got herself calm again. But she couldn't voluntarily conjure so much as a snowball.

How was she supposed to learn to control something she couldn't even make happen except by _losing_ control? She wasn't sure she would ever be able to conceal everything she felt. And she knew Papa couldn't either, with many more years of practice- when Anna was hurt, she knew he had been afraid.

That led to her wondering about her family – how Papa and Mama and Anna had no powers at all. So why did she, Elsa? Had anyone else ever had them? Anyone in Arendelle, or anywhere?

And if so, had they been able to control it?

It was midafternoon when this thought occurred, and it was a notion that refused to wait until any other time. She almost ran to the library – not the small one where they had lessons, but the grand library. She had to unbar the door to go in, but for once, she didn't find herself fretting about getting in trouble – she was too excited.

She was so excited that she almost couldn't read the titles on the books. She forced herself to stand still, calm down, think about how Papa had told her the library was organized, because she'd always just used the smaller one. By when the books had been written? No – by those who had collected them, that was it. There were collections going back over eight centuries, though the oldest, she remembered Papa telling her, were probably actually later than the kings by whom they were categorized, as there was a reference in a chronicle to a search for historic documents when the castle was built. She wasn't even sure they were related to those older kings – there were several overthrows or people dying without heirs in the history she'd been taught.

She decided to stay in safer territory, and look to the collections of the past century or so – her grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-aunt, who was the most recent ruler of Arendelle to leave behind no living children, so the throne passed to her brother. Elsa went through each of them title by title, pulling out any that appeared to be about history or genealogy or magic. It took most of the rest of the afternoon, but she started back to her room with a heavy stack of possibilities.

In a stroke of ill luck and bad timing, she ran into Anna again in the halls. Annoyed – she wanted to get to work – she almost asked Anna if she was following her. It was petty, but felt deserved. But then she remembered the look on Anna's face that night at dinner – and recognized that regardless of that, Anna now again looked thrilled to see her.

She kept walking. She didn't want to have to see that disappointment and betrayal on Anna's face again, ever again. But Anna – not particularly surprisingly – chased after her. She was talking, but Elsa was concentrating too hard on keeping her face expressionless and her emotions in check to understand most of what she said.

Then she heard, "Will you read me a story?" It penetrated her defenses, worked its way straight to her heart, and she almost stopped, _almost_. And she wanted to say yes – they couldn't play, they couldn't be friends, but reading a story wouldn't be any harm, would it? Anna didn't have the patience to read to herself, but she loved to listen. Last year, when Papa commissioned the first official portrait of the two little princesses, Anna could only be made to sit still if Elsa read to her. This was then what the portrait showed – Elsa cross-legged beneath a tree in the orchard, Anna's head on her shoulder, both of them looking down at the book Elsa held on her lap.

But if she read a story now, Anna would expect everything else to return to the way it had been. She was too young to understand that that could not happen. That it would make everything worse to even hope for it.

So Elsa shook her head, and carried on.

Anna chased after her, and her voice grew more insistent – determined. "What are they about?"

When Anna decided to turn stubborn, there was very little that could dissuade her. The best option was usually to let her go until her attention changed direction on its own. So Elsa sighed, and said, "They're not story books." Hoping desperately that Anna would be disappointed enough to give up asking.

But that wasn't enough, of course. Anna kept on and on – what kind, why, what, why why why – until Elsa was almost running and any sympathy she'd had had turned to frustrated annoyance. But when she felt the firm, familiar slick of ice forming under her feet, annoyance turned to fear. And she lashed out.

Desperate, she snapped, "Anna, just stop! Leave me alone!" And she fled, reaching her room just as the tempest surrounded her, engulfed her. She shoved the books into her wardrobe to keep them dry, and again huddled on her bed, hours passing in a blizzard of anger and frustration and fear and sorrow, until she finally fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep long after the last daylight was gone from the windows.

She stopped asking for her bed to be changed when it was soaked from ice and snow. She decided she deserved the discomfort.


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The people of Arendelle grew used to the closed gates and the shuttered windows, and knew there would be no more festivals, or seasonal positions in the castle, or more than the occasional glimpses of the royal family – the king issuing a proclamation; the king and queen going to the docks to travel. They had once been a family friendly to the commons, everyone agreed. Rumors swirled, of course, that something had happened – something terrible, most agreed.

Even more rare – if they truly happened at all – were sightings of the princesses. A ghostly face in the uncovered upper windows, staring out at the fjord – could that be one of them? Once, a girl with vivid red-orange braids, climbing a tree and clambering up on one of the lower roofs before she was called sternly back to earth. Hadn't the younger sister had red hair?

Inside the castle, business went on as best it could, under the circumstances – the king, of course, still welcomed visitors, negotiated, wrote letters and made agreements. The queen arranged for what entertainments she could provide for those who came to visit. Both of them worried – about Elsa, about Anna, about Arendelle – and tried to do their best for all three.

Elsa scoured history books. None provided answers, but study was a form of discipline and control that no one would take away from her. She became the consummate scholar. Her father took to checking her room each night, carrying her to bed when he found her asleep at her desk. It was the only time he now saw her relaxed – the closest she seemed able to come to happiness.

Anna took up hobbies too, though they were more varied than Elsa's. She learned to plant in the gardens and to weed, to paint, to bake, to shoot a crossbow. She stuck with none of them for very long, but her parents encouraged her interests, even the things she didn't feel particularly good at (which was most of them). She got to know well every person who still worked in the castle. She hoped some of them might have time to play with her, but everyone was always busy. Some of her hobbies were really just excuses to be around people for awhile without being a nuisance.

Elsa began meeting with her father the year she turned 10 – the age when he had begun shadowing and learning from his own father. He had also accompanied his father to meet with people, from commoners to courtiers to kings, but this Elsa absolutely refused to do.

"When I can control it," she said.

And the king did not argue with her, though it saddened him to see her look down at her hands, encased in one of her now-numerous pairs of gloves, as she said this. He didn't really feel that he could argue – he had no more to offer her in advice than she had been able to find for herself. And she had no more control now than she ever had.

He taught her what he could – they studied maps and rulers and diplomatic relations, and she mastered it all as doggedly as she did the materials her tutors set before her. She learned conversational niceties, where to seat people at formal dinners, how to write letters and laws. And in stark contrast to his own attempts to master such things, she never complained.

Except when necessary, she rarely spoke at all.

Anna, now seven, decided to try her hand at sewing. She announced proudly at dinner that she was going to be good enough by Elsa's next birthday to make her some gloves. Elsa just gave her her usual fleeting, chilly smile, and turned her attention elsewhere – to the wall, it appeared.

After several weeks of mangling hemlines and samplers, Anna gave up sewing. She bought gloves via a visiting tradesman and a description to her mother of what she thought Elsa might want. When they were given, Elsa said nothing of them clearly not being Anna's work; she thanked her sister, and that was that.

At twelve, Elsa panicked – along with several inches in height and several abrupt physical changes, she suddenly found herself with even less control over powers that were growing stronger still. When she failed to show up for her lessons with him, her father went looking for her. He found her balled up in a corner of her room, almost hysterical, and surrounded by a contained blizzard the likes of which he had only seen on the North Mountain in January.

It took both her parents some time to get her calmed down enough that the howling winds eased and she finally ceased sobbing. She couldn't, or wouldn't, tell them what had happened to set it off.

"It's getting stronger," she said, again and again, her tone begging them for a help they didn't know how to give.

After, when she had fallen into an exhausted sleep and been tucked into a freshly changed bed, the king confronted the topic they had been avoiding for years: "We have to assume this is a permanent condition. We must do something to help her, before she's faced with the pressures of rule."

"That will be many years from now," the queen said. "She's still a child. There are many things children can't control."

"Like sometimes becoming ruler of a kingdom long before they're fully ready? We can't assume it will be many years."

"And what if a son comes? We can't know she'll have to rule, or soon. Without the pressure you're putting on her-"

He rarely got angry, but he was now. "_Pressure_? You're asking me to trust Arendelle and her future to hopes and dreams! That nothing will happen to me. That there will be a son, when there hasn't even been the hope of one in nine years. That maturity will somehow magically bring Elsa some kind of control over this... this _curse_! Any of those things being wrong could be the end of her – what do you think would happen if she became queen tomorrow? Twelve years old, female, and with powers that could kill?"

"She's never-"

"But she could. Or others might think she could. It's hard to be a ruler as a child. Harder still for girls. And a girl seen as a threat? She would disappear, an accident would be staged-"

"I don't want to talk about this!" She was struggling for control, and looked heartbreakingly like Elsa.

"I know. I'm sorry. But it seems like the least we can do for her – and for Anna. Figure out how to keep both of them safe. And to do that, Elsa _must_ be able to hide her powers. She's kept them hidden from Anna – but she can't hide in her room forever."

"What do you suggest?"

He sagged, put his face in his hands. "I don't know."

Anna got a beautiful doll-sized castle and a set of wooden people – king and queen, prince and princess, knights on horses – to live in it for her tenth birthday. She thought it was a little bit babyish at first, but then she decided to write a play and act out all the parts with the people and then invite everyone to come see it. She remembered there had been puppet shows, back when they still went out for festivals, and those had always been very enjoyable. The castle needed something to enjoy – everyone was always so _gloomy_.

So she worked on her play, and she practiced and practiced – maybe not exactly the same lines each time, that was boring, but she thought she had a good enough grasp of the story, since after all she had written it herself. And she asked for paper and made invitations for everyone. She used her very best penmanship, but it still wasn't very neat.

She considered asking Elsa to write them – she wouldn't even have to come out, Anna could slip the papers and list of names under her door – but discarded the notion almost as quickly as it came to her. If she slipped things under the door, she'd just have to cut up more paper.

She used her own invitations. The one for her sister was the only thing that went under Elsa's door. And on the day of the performance, Anna had an audience of five – her mother, her mother's parlor maid, the head cook, and the groom who took care of her pony.

And Elsa, though Anna never knew it. She stayed outside the doors of the parlor, listening as best she could, ready to flee if she heard anyone coming. Anna's little show was clever, with lots of – it sounded like – dramatic conflicts that ended with people falling off the toy castle. Elsa wished she could say it was very good, and she was glad Anna did it, because people were laughing and that meant they were having fun, and the concepts of laughing and fun were all but forgotten in the castle of Arendelle.

But instead of saying any of that, Elsa snuck back to her room when everyone was applauding Anna's performance.

The king and queen, as Elsa approached 14 and Anna 11, had received many requests – or offers – of marriage. Elsa, as expected, was primarily appealing to those seeking to increase their own prestige by marrying off a son who might only be prince consort, but whose sons would be king in their own right. Anna was offered places to enhance diplomatic or trade agreements – a situation not unlike that which her mother had married into. It didn't seem to matter to those making the requests that no one had caught more than a glimpse of the Arendelle princesses for years – they lived, that was enough. Or maybe the mystery of their existence also made them a mystery worth offering a marriage to solve.

"They'll be expected to marry," the queen said, after reading a letter from the king of the Southern Isles.

Her king – whose hair was now liberally speckled with gray despite his relatively young age – sighed and said, "I know. Who do they want this time, Elsa or Anna?"

"They're willing to take either – Elsa for the heir, presumably allowing him to rule both kingdoms. Anna for a younger son – how many do they have?"

"I can't remember precisely. A lot."

"Diplomatic ties closer to the heart of Europe might be helpful. Perhaps there are scholars there who could better understand Elsa's... condition."

"I'm not yet willing to risk her safety – or Arendelle's – on that hope. I think it's still premature to promise either Elsa or Anna to anyone. Anna's only 10 years old!"

"I was 11 when my marriage was arranged," the queen said.

"And several years older before the marriage actually happened. More importantly, my parents had met you. I had pictures, letters. Do you think a land as status-conscious as the Southern Isles would allow a betrothal of several years with no contact?"

"Perhaps it is time for Anna to be allowed out. Several have offered to foster her – the Duke of Weselton, for one."

"Who has _also_ offered to marry her. Two wives, both holding considerable land and wealth, both dead within a decade and leaving him to inherit the lot."

"I thought the first wife died in childbirth."

"So he said. And perhaps she did. But do you really want to send Anna there? She would be his bargaining chip for whatever he wanted, married to her or not."

"There have been other offers. Further removed. Anna would love France."

"But how would we justify it to Elsa?"

The queen smiled sadly. "Both of them have been sheltered from the true workings of the world for far too long. It might be a good time for them to learn that."

"I suspect Elsa already knows."

A nod; a sigh. "Yes. I expect she does."

She certainly did – in her teenage years, Elsa found it extremely difficult not to resent every person she saw, out her window or in the claustrophobic corridors of the castle. She could not conceal, much less not feel, the simmering rage, frustration, desperation. For days at a time, she stayed in her room, her own contained blizzard of emotion. To her parents' consternation, she learned to freeze the lock so they couldn't get in – and she said nothing of the tiny flare of pride she felt when she learned that that much, she could do of her own volition. She flew into a rage the one time they did get in, screaming at them not to touch her and threatening to jump from her window.

After that, she was left alone – and lonely – in her stormy rages. If Anna, in the room next door, had heard that outburst or any others, she said nothing. But they all considered the possibility. There was sometimes a certain cast to her eyes that might have meant she knew more than she was disclosing. She was no longer a child any more than Elsa was, from whom things might be easily hidden, content with simple explanations.

"Do you think we should seek the advice of a physician?" the king asked the queen.

"Elsa's a young lady now. She's in the hardest part of growing up. I think with time, it will pass."

"I'm worried she'll hurt herself."

"She never has before."

"She's never been 15 before! It's a hard enough age without everything else she's dealing with."

"It's no different for her than it's ever been – and I know, she's old enough now to recognize it's never going to be easy, her role in life. But she must learn to handle it on her own – that's what you've always wanted her to learn, isn't it?"

"Conceal." The king echoed that mantra he had given to Elsa almost half her lifetime ago. "Don't feel. I didn't think hiding away, concealing _herself_, would come of it, or go on for so long."

"I know." She put her hand over his. "But I also know you expected to find a solution much earlier, just as I did. We can't change that past."

"But since she hasn't learned to control it, don't you think we might be better off bringing in someone to examine her, perhaps ease her fears or even help her overcome them?"

"The idea is appealing, but I would be afraid of what might happen. Physicians see many people – all he would have to do was mention it to one person, and soon everyone would know."

"I suppose you're right. But if it happens again, or if she does attempt to hurt herself..."

"Then we can discuss a physician, yes."

When Anna was 13, she begged for lessons in ballroom dancing. She had finally learned to appreciate books – not the dry tomes Elsa insisted on torturing herself with, but stories, especially dark gothic tales or frothy, comedic romances. In the latter, there were always fortuitous meetings in ballrooms. Having recently realized she might not mind a fortuitous meeting, she had decided it was necessary to learn to dance.

Her mother taught her the basics, and her father and his butler agreed to stand in as partners. It was no ball, but Anna's joyous laughter, her parents agreed afterward, was worth the soreness of exercising limbs almost a decade out of practice on the dance floor.

Elsa had her second official portrait painted that year – at 16, she was finally officially acknowledged and given over duties as heir. This portrait stood in marked contrast to the informal childhood one of the two young princesses reading in the orchard. Now, she stood stiff and composed, wearing a high-collared blue jacket over a lighter blue dress that almost matched her eyes. Her hair was intricately braided and gathered at the nape of her neck. Her hands, as always, were gloved – the same deep blue as her jacket.

When Anna saw the portrait, she said, "She's very pretty, but she should have smiled."

Negotiations had finally begun for Elsa to marry – the king was in talks with the principality of Leisalla, where the current prince was willing to discuss allowing his land to become a barony under Arendelle's rule if his eldest son was married to the heir. It would be a strong pact, the king believed – he knew the prince to be honorable, and the land was both well-located and good for planting. A marriage with Arendelle would strengthen it against neighbors who had attempted to take control of it in the past.

"But what of her powers?" the queen asked.

"Apparently, the princess of Leisalla is also... rather different, according to those who have met the children. It's not the same in details, but I hope they might be more accepting of Elsa as a result. And I want to be honest with them – they have asked you and I to come to meet their son in person. If all goes well, we will return the favor and invite them here to meet Elsa. I will make sure they know everything about her before anything is signed."

The queen smiled. "Anna will be thrilled to have visitors."

But neither Anna nor Elsa was told of these plans in advance. The king worked tirelessly on the negotiations for the better part of two years – letters were exchanged, cordial relations established on paper, and both the king of Arendelle and the prince of Leisalla made clear suggestions that there were facts not yet revealed, family secrets to be discussed only in person; letters were too easily seen by the wrong eyes.

Elsa turned 18, and the formality of her bearing was somewhat more acceptable on a young adult than on a child. Past the worst storms of adolescence, the snowy tempests had for the most part ceased – as long as she kept her gloves on; they had become her placebo means of control. She was beautiful, but in a calm, cold way that made it clear she expected people to keep their distance. She had a pleasant, close-lipped smile, perfect manners, and wide, haunted eyes – eyes that gave away that there was more to her careful poise than just good breeding.

Anna at 15 was shorter than her sister, awkwardly coltish, caught on that cusp between adolescence and adulthood. She still wore her hair in braids, but requested lower necklines on her dresses and heels on her shoes. She complained of her freckles, then spent entire afternoons in the garden, encouraging more. There was nothing close-lipped about _her_ smile, and she still had trouble sitting still for more than a few minutes at a time. Her best skill for formal occasions – not that there were any – was her ability to strike up a conversation with absolutely anyone. She was cute, open, and generally happy – maybe still a bit impetuous and impulsive, but there was plenty of time still to grow out of that.

When the king and queen packed up for their journey to Leisalla, Anna peppered them with questions – where was it? Who lived there? What were the people like? Would they bring her something – a dress? Or a hat, a nice summer hat, could they look if they had time? Could she go someday?

And she threw her arms around both of them, exhilarated by the very idea of going away, and said, "See you in two weeks!"

Elsa, at her father's request, saw them to the door. She was subdued and appeared calm, but there was a tremble in her voice: "I wish you didn't have to go."

"We won't be gone long," her mother said. "We'll be back before you have time to miss us."

Her father took her gloved hands. "And we leave the kingdom in very good care." He squeezed gently. "You'll be fine, Elsa."

She offered her usual fleeting smile, and gave a curtsey, bowing her head deeply – ever formal, she neither offered nor accepted a final hug. She took a deep breath, held it as they went out, released it slowly when the door clicked shut behind them.

It was the last time she ever saw them.

* * *

They brought the news to Elsa first, the first time a servant had knocked on her door in years, and that alone was enough that she knew something terrible must have happened. It was her father's butler – when he opened her door and she saw him, drawn and pale, it came inexplicably to her mind that she couldn't remember his name. Had she ever known it? A defense against hearing whatever he had to say, she tried to remember it – Per? She thought it was something similar to that. Perhaps Peter?

"Princess Elsa?" he said gently, and she realized she had been staring at the wall, almost lightheaded, unfocused.

She made herself look at him. "My apologies – I'm listening." In her head, a childish voice begged her not to listen, because hearing it made it real.

"I'm... I'm very sorry to have to bring you this news. The letter just arrived." He held up trembling hands, so she could see the paper clutched in them. "There was... a storm. At sea. Your parents... There were no survivors."

Elsa grabbed the door frame – she felt like her legs might give out – then snatched her hand back when she felt ice forming beneath it, even with her gloves on. She hugged her arms to her chest, tightly, and swayed. Her father's nameless butler reached out to steady her; she stepped away instinctively, shaking her head but hardly aware that she was doing so. She felt as if the floor was falling away beneath her.

"I'm sorry," the butler said, but she didn't know if he meant for bringing the news or her loss or for almost grabbing her. And she didn't care.

She shook her head again, half a dismissal and half trying to clear her fuzzy thoughts, and turned away. She wanted him to go, for everyone to go, leave and take her responsibilities with them and let her be alone. Let her _think_.

But he was talking again, gentle but insistent now, and she caught a word in what was otherwise an impenetrable quagmire of sound: _Anna_.

Anna.

Someone had to tell Anna.

But Elsa knew it couldn't be her. _Couldn't_. She couldn't do that, not to the girl who came in mud-covered from hunting wildflowers, who helped in the kitchens just so someone might offer her a cookie, whose laughter still rang stubbornly through the empty corridors long after everyone else had forgotten how to join in.

"No," Elsa said, or hoped she said, because her voice sounded so faint she wasn't sure it was really there. "I can't... please." There was a skim of ice beneath her feet, spreading. She could feel it. "You can tell her. Tell Anna. Please." She stepped back, almost stumbled. "Go tell her now."

She closed the door on him, almost slammed it. Then she brought her arms up again, hugging herself. She hadn't hugged her parents, either of them. They had promised to be back in two weeks, and she hadn't even said goodbye. And she couldn't tell Anna.

Elsa sank to the floor, pulled her knees up, put her head in her hands. Snow swirled around her, twinkling like stars in the light of the sunset through the window. "Conceal," she whispered. "Don't feel."

But she felt. She felt more than she could stand. She felt, and it _hurt_, but she felt and felt and felt.

She buried her face on her knees and wept.

* * *

There were no bodies to bury, but when Elsa refused to speak to anyone, the question was put to Anna – did she want stones put up, as memorials? She had no idea, but she said yes because it seemed like the answer everyone would want. They asked her lots of questions and she tried to give the answers they wanted then, too, but suddenly it felt like there were a million thing she didn't know anything about. They took her measurements for mourning clothes, and she stood pliable as a doll. She was supposed to get a new hat, not this.

She felt like she did when running a fever – weak, dazed, unable to focus. She waited for Elsa to show up and take charge, because that was her job now – already, "Queen Elsa" floated from conversations Anna overheard. And she wanted Elsa to come, because she was alone and miserable and afraid. She wanted someone to tell her it would be alright.

But Elsa's door was locked, and she responded to no one. The day of the funeral, Anna dressed alone, in her horrible new black clothes. She walked the halls alone, left the castle grounds via the servants' gate because she didn't want to see anyone. It was her first time outside of the castle walls in 10 years.

She stood alone between the stones that had no bodies beneath, holding her cloak closed against the chill wind. She hardly caught a word of the service. It didn't matter – she wasn't sure she would have wanted to hear it anyway. She trembled, and not entirely with cold.

Several people offered to walk back with her, but she shook her head to all of them. Her parents' employees – once, she had called them friends, because friends were what she wanted, and Elsa had locked herself away in inexplicable isolation, and there were very few others to choose from. But Anna was no longer a child – and the castle staff were kind to her, but they were not her friends.

No friends, now no family. The one person left to her in the world wanted nothing to do with her. She would walk alone because alone was how she was going to be, whether she wanted that or not.

But she _didn't_ want to be alone. In a story, now would be the tragedy that would bring her and Elsa back together, closer than they had ever been before. And that was what she wanted – the best friend she remembered so vividly despite all the years lost between them. The one who helped her stand again when she tripped and scraped her knee, the one who shared her cake after Anna's piece fell on the floor, the one who smiled reassuringly and held her hands whenever she cried.

Anna knew 15 was too old for such things, but she wished desperately for something like that now – someone to hold her hand and tell her it would all be okay. She walked past her door, hesitated, then knocked softly on Elsa's.

When there was no response, she said, "Elsa? Please – please talk to me. I don't know what to do." She was starting to cry. "People were asking about you. They're worried about you. About us. And I'm... I'm worried too. I'm scared, Elsa. I'm... I'm..." She slid down the door, pulled her knees to her chest. "I'm here if you need me, okay? Please... please let me in. It's just us now. So please...Please, Elsa..."

There was no response. Anna put her face in her hands.

"What are we going to do?" she whispered.

Inside her room, Elsa was a mirror image, huddled against the door, surrounded by the storm of her emotions. The sisters of Arendelle cried together, but the wall stood between them, and neither had ever felt so alone.


	7. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

In the three years until she could be officially crowned at 21, Elsa had to learn to turn the theories of ruling she had been taught by her father into practice. Some things, she was pleased to find she was quite adept at – her mind quick but cautious, she excelled at reading between the lines of diplomatic missives, at figuring out what was actually wanted and contrasting it with what was actually being offered in return. She also grew skilled at crafting replies, most of which she wrote herself since she still rarely left her room – she had the time for it. She learned through condolence letters of the proposed marriage with Leisalla, and though it left her with mixed feelings towards her father – betrayal that he hadn't told her, pride that he trusted her to make a successful marriage despite her difficulties – she successfully negotiated with the prince to indefinitely call off the match, citing the strenuous process of learning to rule and the continued mourning period.

She also retained a knack for geography and arithmetic, honed since childhood. Added to that was a propensity for keeping straight the complicated webs of trade relations, diplomatic marriages, and centuries-old animosities that seemed to define the kingdoms of Europe. It made perfect sense in her head, all those relationships and connections between kingdoms, each one on its own possible to follow even when the whole was a tangled mess.

So she was good at dealing with abstracts – the people who would one day read her letters, or the intricate tapestries of lands and families. But when it came to dealing with anyone face-to-face, rather than merely in concept, she struggled. Or rather, refused to do it at all. Nobody argued with her about it – one of the few advantages of her new position was that hardly anyone argued with her about anything. But she saw the concerned looks passed between her advisers.

She told herself that after the coronation, she would learn – figure out a way – to meet with people. At 18, it seemed like plenty of time to work through her fears, but by the winter of her twenty-first birthday, it seemed perhaps a premature goal. Thus far, she had kept her secret around the people she was now forced to interact with, but they were all loyal to her family, not likely to say anything to upset her. The same would not necessarily be true of outsiders looking after their own best interests rather than Arendelle's.

Elsa also worried about how she came across to people, which she knew could be crucial in diplomacy. The poise and calm she had worked so hard to maintain she was concerned might come across as overly cold and aloof. She didn't want to alienate the wrong people.

She finally got up the nerve to ask her butler (whose name turned out to be Per after all), but he just smiled and said, "You come across as perfectly regal, Princess Elsa." His job was to be the expert in such things – he was the only person who remembered she was officially "princess" until crowned otherwise – so she accepted his word on it. Besides, she didn't know who else to ask.

Every day, she woke up to be hit anew with the force of her responsibilities, and had to talk herself into getting out of bed when all she wanted to do was hide under the covers until someone else – older, braver, better prepared – took over the ruling of the kingdom. Every night, she lay awake for what felt like hours, trying to clear her head. But in the hours in between, she threw herself into learning to be Queen Elsa with the same quiet determination that had once defined her studies and personal challenges.

Sometimes – occasionally, rarely – she felt a sense of pride in something she had done. It was almost like happiness.

Anna, meanwhile, did not have the same obligations to keep her occupied. She grew somewhat more subdued, even when the darkest days of sorrow and loneliness had passed – maybe it was due to what had happened, maybe it was just part of the natural process of growing up.

She had hoped, once, that Elsa might open the castle up again, or at least explain why if she chose to keep it locked and shuttered. A sister, Anna believed, should view her more as an equal in such things than parents did a child, even if Elsa was now the queen. And being equals should mean that if Elsa knew the reason for something, she would explain it to Anna if asked.

But Elsa remained as walled off from Anna as the castle was from Arendelle, and no explanations were given for anything. Even when they could not avoid meeting, Elsa only smiled and offered slight courtesies – a nod, a monotone greeting – before moving on. Anna had also retained a modicum of hope that Elsa would try to make a family again with her, since each was all the other had left. But for Elsa, it might as well have been that nothing had changed. She still spent as much time as she could holed up in her room, still refused to acknowledge anyone – especially Anna – for days at a time with no explanations given. She remained cold and distant and absolutely impossible for Anna to figure out.

At first, Anna was hurt that even at such a dreadful, painful time, Elsa had no comfort to offer. She tried to tell herself that everyone had to grieve in their own way, in their own time, and to give Elsa the space to do so. But by the same argument, why couldn't Elsa apparently spare even an hour for her own sister's grief? Just an acknowledgment that she was in Elsa's thoughts, and Anna believed she would feel much better.

Sorrow and bemusement gave way slowly to anger, as she finally allowed herself to admit that nothing was going to change – _Elsa _was not going to change. Something had made her change once, and Anna still had no idea what that had been, but clearly even death wasn't enough to do it again. She got so aggravated that she went to Elsa's door and kicked it, hard. All she gained from that was a sore foot. Elsa, of course, ignored her – Anna didn't even know for sure that she was in there.

From anger, she passed back to the same resigned frustration she had felt for so many years. Elsa was out of her room perhaps a little bit more often; otherwise, for Anna, it might as well have been the case that nothing had changed except the empty space in her heart, the part her mother and father had taken away with them, lost beneath the waves to the west.

She read books, she ran through the halls when it seemed like walking would take too long, she daydreamed about all the ways she might finally escape the castle – a magic spell that put everyone else to sleep and only she could find and defeat the evil sorceress and put things right; a young man almost perished in a winter storm, slowly nursed back to health to then reveal himself as the long-lost heir to a great kingdom, come to their land after hearing about the fabled beauty of the younger princess of Arendelle (he liked red hair and freckles, and thought her clumsiness endearing). Silly, romantic dreams that borrowed heavily from her favorite stories, but they helped her to pass the time.

Birthdays were no longer much acknowledged, but Anna still waited eagerly for Elsa to turn 21 – because 21 meant it was time for her official coronation. And the coronation required outside witnesses. And for the sake of diplomacy, witnesses meant every friend, trading partner, and military ally of Arendelle must be invited. And that meant visitors – _lots_ of visitors. Anna was so excited at the prospect that her own eighteenth birthday coming and going with hardly an acknowledgment didn't bother her at all (or at least didn't bother her much).

The coronation was scheduled for July, a beautiful month in Arendelle, when the hills would be covered in flowers, the fjord would sparkle in the sun, and the warm days would seem to blend into one long summer, the nights were so short. Traditions going back centuries would be observed, Anna hoped: the presenting of the new ruler to the people of Arendelle; the all-night vigil for any who wanted to (figuratively, nowadays) dedicate themselves to the monarch's protection; the passing out of king's loaves, the little rolls that might contain one of the first coins minted with the new ruler's image, considered an augury of coming great fortune. There would be a grand feast and dancing and music, for those inside the castle and out. The festivities were supposed to last a week – theatrical performances, singing, children's pageants, parades.

Elsa read all of the accounts of previous coronations, up to and including her father's – he had been crowned only two years before she was born. It seemed that he had allowed celebrations to go on for the better part of a month, and given access to his own wine cellars when the ale supply ran low in the city. Elsa had trouble reconciling the mental image of it, when contrasted with her father as she remembered him for most of her life, worn and solemn, his hair streaked with gray and his eyes always tired.

She also made sure, in her usual thorough manner, that she could discern what was requisite and what was merely a welcome addition of fun to an otherwise formal event. With the help of Per and Erik, her father's clerk, she developed a schedule of events that covered all the necessities and made room for a few hours of enjoyment. At the last minute, she also consulted Sigrid, her mother's parlor maid, who now assisted Elsa in matters where she wanted more feminine advice than she could get from Per.

Sigrid looked at the list, then smiled ruefully.

"Did I miss something?" Elsa asked.

Sigrid shook her head. "No, your highness. I was just imagining how Princess Anna will react to this."

"Anna?" She hadn't given Anna a single thought – Anna had nothing to do with the coronation, except being expected to attend. "She won't like it?" Considering her social propensities, Elsa had expected her sister to be thrilled by the very prospect of such events.

"I think she'll like it very much," Sigrid said. "But she won't like that you're cramming it all into a single day."

Though it was meant as amusement and came from speculation, Elsa felt a prickly irritation towards Anna, because that probably _would _be something she complained about. "It can't be helped," Elsa said stiffly, and the matter was settled.

Invitations went out with the spring thaw, and as responses trickled in, Elsa's anxious anticipation grew such that she had to dictate any necessary replies to Erik rather than writing them herself. She claimed it was because of the volume of correspondence, but in reality, she could not hold a pen without the ink freezing on the nib. When signs of the upcoming event began appearing around the castle, she felt niggling panic every time she left her room; she retreated back to it and found excuses – for herself as often as for others – to remain within its familiar walls.

Anna, meanwhile, threw herself into the thick of preparations with a gusto she hadn't felt in years. She _had_ been disappointed at getting only a single day, but that did nothing to temper her overall enthusiasm. She was adamant with herself – if there was only one day, she would enjoy every single second of it. No excuses.

She read the guest list so many times she believed she had most of it memorized, and the proposed menu almost as often – there were foods on it she had never even _heard_ of! She sampled in the kitchens, hovered to see the contents of arriving boxes and parcels, went to the upper floor windows to watch the docks being cleaned and the decorations going up. She liked the banners with Elsa's silhouette particularly, and apparently was not the only one – she saw the people of Arendelle looking up at them and pointing them out to others.

They probably didn't know what Elsa looked like, Anna realized – none of them had seen her since she was a child. They wouldn't know Anna either. The idea occurred to her to sneak out when the gates were opened to admit their visitors, before anyone had a chance to realize who she was. Elsa might not like it, but if Elsa couldn't be bothered to come out of her room to tell Anna what she did want, then she had no right to complain.

From Per and Sigrid, Anna was given some instructions for the coronation ceremony itself. Where to stand, how she would be announced, what to expect at the ball and stock answers to questions (which she had no intention of using). She was coached on how to address people depending on their ranks, and how to infer ranks if they were not given, and how to apologize if she still got it wrong.

It all seemed rather ridiculous. "Does Elsa have to do all this?"

"The queen has been tutored in such things for many years," Sigrid said.

"Perils of being the spare," Anna muttered, disgruntled, and then mixed up earls and barons for what felt like the fifteenth time that day. She was tempted to just call everyone "your highness" and enjoy the ensuing hierarchical chaos.

More fun was deciding what to wear – she was given pattern books and sketches and designs from all over Europe. France was clearly much bolder than Arendelle – and some of their ideas were very tempting. In the end, she decided not to push her luck quite that far, but she _did_ choose an off-the-shoulder bodice. If anyone – Elsa – said anything about it, she would show her the French ones. Plus, the skirt would make up for it; it was full and would practically drag on the ground. No scandalous ankle-flashing for demure Princess Anna!

Presented with similar clothing options, Elsa shook her head to them all; there was one of her mother's old dresses, worn at her own coronation as queen of Arendelle, that would suit perfectly well with a bit of alteration. It was form fitting, long, high collared – with a cloak, Elsa thought she might look at bit overdressed for a warm summer day, but at least the gloves wouldn't seem so out of place.

And the gloves were another source of anxiety – she had to take them off for the actual pronouncement of the new queen, to hold against bare skin the orb and scepter of the kingdom. It was one of those things about which Elsa could not successfully argue. The Bishop of Arendelle met with her to discuss it – the reading would be his – and seemed affronted by the very idea.

"But why?" Elsa asked – her voice carefully, calmly neutral. "I don't understand why it would make any difference."

The Bishop hesitated. "Is there a... physical impediment to your removing your gloves?"

"No. But I would still prefer to leave them on."

"I'm afraid that's not how it's done, Queen Elsa."

She had begun to hate it when people called her that. It always sounded as if they were mocking her. "I don't see that it negates the whole ceremony if I leave my gloves on."

"Part of the ceremony requires you to hold the orb and scepter in your _hands_, representing the people and their protection. No one has ever done it with gloves on."

She wanted to say, "How do you know?", but she was fearful of his answer, as he worked under ecclesiastical, rather than her own, jurisdiction. He might be the first to say something that upset her beyond her ability to hide it, long before she was ready. So instead, she asked, "But I only have to take them off for that part?"

He sighed, clearly exasperated. "Yes, your majesty. Only for that part."

There was a portrait in one of the receiving rooms of her father on his own coronation day, looking young but also so sure of himself. Elsa found herself, as her own day approached, looking at it more and more often, and wondering if he was really as confident as he looked, or if it was part of a front put on for those attending. Or maybe the artist had chosen to portray him as the king he might be – and would become – and his serene, wise expression in no way resembled what had been the reality of that long-ago day.

She tried to practice, using a decorative ornament – something heavy and round, probably worth a lot but she had no idea what it actually was – and a candlestick. She locked the door, took several deep breaths, and removed her gloves. The slick, smooth metal felt alien against her bare palms.

For a moment, she thought she had it. Her heart raced, breath caught – then a sheen of ice began to creep across the ornament and up the candlestick. She almost threw them down, then covered her face with her still-bare hands.

"Conceal, don't feel," she whispered, so quickly it became a single, unbroken sound: "Conceal-don't-feel, conceal-don't-feel, conceal-don't-feel."

She knew she should try again, but didn't think she would be able to control her emotions if she saw no improvement. Better to practice remaining calm no matter what happened. It was going to be a stressful day regardless – but, she reminded herself, only for the one day. She could, _would_, make it through.

She had no choice.

In the week before the big day, Anna decided sleeping, eating, and any sense of calm were going to be impossible, so she might as well give up on them (she didn't _entirely_ give up on sleeping and eating, but gave both the absolute minimum necessary attention). Her new dress was ready and on the dressmaker's dummy in her room to keep it shapely and wrinkle-free – clothes in her wardrobe, for some reason, always seemed to fall off the hangers she put them on and wound up in one big, wrinkled pile – and she had her new slippers and one of her mother's ribboned combs to keep her hair in place.

She thought about asking Elsa to help with her hair – Elsa's own hair always looked so pretty! - but decided Elsa probably had enough to do already. That, and she would probably just say no, if she could be bothered to say anything at all.

Still, Anna knew she would get to see Elsa that day – see her, talk to her, maybe even have a chance to convince her she wasn't just an irritating child anymore. Yes, Elsa had been ruling all but officially for three years now, but surely after her coronation, she wouldn't be able to hide in her room anymore – and Anna would be there to help her learn to handle the world again. Hopefully not having much, or any, more true experience with it wouldn't matter, and a solid knowledge of concepts would be enough.

Meanwhile, the castle was finally coming back to life – there were even new people already there, to help with preparations in the rooms to be opened and in the kitchens, which now smelled amazing pretty much constantly, even if Anna was too excited and worried about missing something to eat. The coverings were being taken down from the windows, boxes of fancy, pretty things brought out of storage, rugs unrolled in hallways Anna had been sliding down stocking-footed for years. There was dusting, scrubbing, polishing, washing. Corridors were filled with summer sunlight, and Anna stopped at every window to see the new views.

From her room, Elsa saw the decorations go up outside, hear the noise and bustle of the castle being opened up, and counted the days. She heard Anna running past, and her shouts of delight and approval – how could she know and remember the names of all the people working in the castle? Elsa could hardly remember the names of the handful of people she saw regularly.

Every day seemed shorter than the last. The night before coronation day, the noise of preparations never stopped, though Elsa was not uncharitable enough to believe that was the cause of her sleeplessness. Anna clearly couldn't sleep either – her door opened and closed several times. Elsa lay in bed for several hours, trying to think of something calming, but every muffled bang or shout returned her to the present. She was anxious and antsy, only clinging to control through sheer stubborn force of will.

Finally, in the deepest hours of the night, she gave it up, climbing out of bed and dressing in a night-robe and slippers – though she had no plans of being seen. As she had done with Anna as a child, she snuck through the corridors on silent feet, peering around corners and avoiding anywhere that sounded active. Now, however, she traveled up instead of down.

The top floor of the castle was mostly used for storage – but once, it was where the kings of Arendelle came to watch for attacks by sea. The balcony was still there, overlooking the nestled city and the fjord. Elsa went there now.

The night was velvety blue and warm, the sky sprinkled alight with stars, the moon almost full and already sinking towards the horizon, though in this midsummer, the sun would be up long before the moon actually set. Far below, there were ships anchored in the harbor – some visitors must have already arrived. Torches still burned on the docks and in the large public square, but they did not provide enough light to penetrate the gloom, to let her see if anyone was outside. Certainly, some people must be: guards, if nothing else, were there, and more of them than ever before – she had approved their hiring.

And if there were people down there, Elsa wondered, could they see her? A tiny figure on a balcony many stories up, the diaphanous, pale blue robe and her alabaster hair bright against the midnight sky – would they recognize her? Figure out who she was?

She stared into the night again, enjoyed the quiescent feeling of momentary freedom – here, alone, in secret. No "queen" before her name, no "majesty" or "highness" or "madam."

Elsa. She was just Elsa.

On the horizon, the faint line of dawn appeared.

It was coronation day.


	8. Chapter 6

**Another thank you for all the wonderful reviews - you guys are amazing, and I'm so glad you're enjoying this! **

**A warning regarding the updates: I get busy again starting next week. Absurdly busy, more than likely. So updates may slow down some, particularly since I write by hand and so have to find time to write ****_and_**** type/edit before anything can go up. I've written about 120 pages in my notebook and hope to get to 150 before the end of the week, and I will do my best to have most of that typed up before the end of the weekend, but no promises. I'll be at it when I can, because I do want to get to the original trilogy to follow. This will be set several years (probably between 3 and 14) after the movie, and will be my attempt to explain why and how Elsa has her powers. I'm really looking forward to writing it, but know this needs to be done first, and there's my impetus to find the time! **

**So be forewarned that things may slow down - and my apologies. There's lots to come, but real life has a nasty habit of making itself unavoidable!**

**Now, without further ado, let's move away from those claustrophobic castle confines, shall we? Walk with me outside the gates...**

* * *

**PART 2: QUEEN ELSA OF ARENDELLE**

**Chapter 6**

By midmorning on coronation day, it was clear that the additional trip up the mountains to resupply had been completely worth it – if people stuck around for a few more days, as he suspected they would, he might make enough to get through the winter months comfortably. That would be a first. It almost made him wish they had public events at the castle more often.

But the problem with public events was that they by necessity involved the public. Kristoff did not particularly like people, and it usually appeared that the feeling was mutual. He didn't really care, at least in summer, when he had something they needed; it got a little more complicated when he needed to find odd jobs in the winter. He had too much pride now to go back home and ask for help, especially since he knew they would give it when they barely had enough to get by themselves.

Kristoff, in summer, sold ice. He had done it all his life, really – his parents were Sami, from far to the north, and when they died, he had been taken in by the men who worked with his father ice harvesting. But he had, way back then, believed there might be greater things in store for him in life; on a trip south for selling, he decided he wanted to stay, and no one argued – a heady feeling for an eight-year-old. But he had very quickly discovered that being a child with no friends and no family in a strange place was also no fun.

It was that difficult year on his own that led to much of his dislike for people generally, because most of them wouldn't even offer him a smile, much less food or a place to sleep. He did alright in the warmer months, but as the weather turned cooler, it grew harder to find things to eat with fewer festivals and farmers bringing harvests. He wouldn't steal; things discarded or that fell of wagons, though, were fair game. And there was the coming cold to worry about too; he had seen frostbite at its worst, and he had nightmares about waking to find his fingers and toes black and rotting.

He tried offering to help people with little jobs they might need doing – he was large and strong for his age, even after months of near-starvation – and that was what got him the offer of spending a winter helping a man named Lars care for his reindeer. That was exciting, for Kristoff – many of the people in his home village had had reindeer, so when Lars asked if he thought he could handle it, Kristoff replied honestly that he could.

It was Lars who destroyed what little faith he still had in people. Lars' reindeer weren't like the ones Kristoff had known before; those had been beautiful creatures that gave fur, meat, milk, and strength as they pulled plows in summer and sleds in winter, and as a source of such as treasured and cared-for as any child. It was a necessary fact of their existence that some would be killed for meat and skins, but the philosophy was that you treated them well because of that, not in spite of it.

Lars also raised his reindeer for meat, but he sold it in the market in Arendelle to people who had probably never seen such animals except in paintings, and most certainly had not seen his. They were kept in crowded stalls, so narrow they would hardly turn when full grown. The stalls were rarely cleaned, leaving the animals standing in their own filth; many had raw, infected sores on their legs and bellies. They were fed well, to keep the fat on them, but it was a low-quality grain Lars got from the next farm over in trade for cured meat.

There were three barns for the animals, and Kristoff was to do work in all of them, but the smallest quickly became where he spent most of his time. He even slept there, since Lars had not offered him a place in the house. Sleeping on straw was a lot better than sleeping on the ground.

The smallest barn was where birthing took place, and where the babies were bottlefed so their mothers could be taken away to breed again. The baby reindeer were Kristoff's favorites – so wobbly and clumsy, and bouncing off each other like goats. He loved taking care of them, even when it meant forcing himself awake several times a night to give them their bottles. Usually, there were several of them curled up around him each time he woke – his breathing, furry blanket.

Kristoff didn't like how the animals were treated, but he still needed a place to stay for the winter, so he didn't say anything. He did the jobs Lars assigned him, and more besides, when there was time – like mucking out their disgusting stalls.

With spring came new calves, and Kristoff played with and cared for them all. A particular favorite was a little female he called Astrid – ignoring Lars' warning not to give them names – who was born with a malformation of her nose and mouth that made it difficult to suckle. Kristoff came up with a twisted cloth that she could more easily get her mouth around; almost all his free time was taken up with dipping the cloth and feeding her, but he didn't mind, particularly when she started to grow like the other calves.

But while Lars didn't pay much attention to his animals, he did notice the single time Kristoff was late with the feed because he was helping Astrid. Kristoff was given a solid whack on the side of his head that left his ear swollen and throbbing for the better part of a week.

Astrid, now that Lars was aware of her existence, was taken out behind the smallest barn and beheaded with Lars' well-honed axe. Kristoff watched her go with one hand over his ear and tears in his eyes. She was wagging her tail as she went – thanks to him, she trusted everyone.

Kristoff stayed two more months, because he still didn't have anywhere else to go and because his mind was occupied with elaborate plots for revenge rather than escape. If not for Sven, he might have stayed forever, scheming and fuming but doing nothing to change anything.

There was nothing wrong with Sven, unlike Astrid; he was just another calf of the same season, but strong and whole. Kristoff sometimes let the calves out into the meadows around the barns, and in the tall, thick grass was a hidden hole, probably some animal burrow, and one day Sven's leg sank right into it and snapped.

There was no time to think about what he was doing. Sven was bellowing with pain and fear; if – when – Lars heard him and came out, it would end with another dead reindeer. Lars never treated animals that were noticeably sick or badly wounded, he just killed them.

So Kristoff scooped Sven up, though Sven already weighed almost as much as he did, and he ran. Away from Lars' miserable farm, away from people, he ran until he was on the verge of collapse. He had no idea where he was, just knew he was deep enough in the woods that he couldn't see the mountains or meadows or that cold city called Arendelle.

As well as frostbite, he had seen his share of injuries out on the ice, and he knew the basics of treating them. He tore a strip from his shirt and found a sturdy branch and splinted Sven's leg. That was also when he named him Sven.

Kristoff decided that night that he never wanted to be around people more than he absolutely had to ever again. Feeling good in his resolution, he curled up with Sven and slept all night and through most of the next day.

Eventually, he had loosened up a little, when one strange day led him to people he felt were a little more like he was – loosened up so he wouldn't face starving or freezing, anyway, though he still wasn't sure if "friends" or "family" was the right word for those who took him in. He worked hard now so he could begin to pay them back – he planned to, one day. And he took care of himself and Sven with no help from anyone.

And work hard he did – he had spent the better part of two years working for a wainwright to earn his own sled, while also doing odd jobs in the mountains and the woods, guiding travelers mostly, to pay for food and a tiny room at an inn and a somewhat larger place in a stable for Sven. He might not be entirely sure how old he was now or when he'd last had a chance to bathe, but he had his sled, and Sven to pull it, and he knew all the best routes into the mountains to find ice even in the heart of summer – he thought he was doing alright. And sure, the work was often hard and dangerous, but he was good at it and the exertion guaranteed peaceful, deep sleep every night.

Much as he still disliked socializing, being in Arendelle for the new queen's coronation was proving a very good thing – already, he had sold half his supply, to the inns and public houses and even one of the ships, and the real crowds hadn't started arriving yet. By evening, when there were hundreds looking to celebrate the night away, he expected to be sold out and long gone.

"Hoping to see the queen when she comes out?" one of the innkeeps had asked as he made his purchase. "I'm opening up my balcony – cheapest guaranteed view in Arendelle."

"Nah, I've seen them before."

The innkeep looked surprised. "Queen Elsa? You sure it was her? Nobody's seen her or her sister for... has to be ten years or more."

"Yeah, it was a long time ago."

"Guess people don't change that much. Though I hear good things about the way those two grew up."

Kristoff was hoping to be gone before this new queen appeared and everyone lost their minds over her very existence. He had nothing against her, of course – the world needed people to make the rules, just like it needed farmers and merchants and, yes, ice harvesters. But he also wasn't going to pay for a balcony spot to worship her from afar. She was just another human being. Nothing special about her.

* * *

Only when someone finally found some ice could Hans drink his coffee – the day was much too warm to drink it hot; he had been introduced to icing the stuff by a family friend with a plantation in the Caribbean, and today seemed the kind of day for just that. Only after his coffee would he actually get out of bed – or what bed there was, on this wretched hulk of a ship. And only after getting out of bed, dressing, and leaving his stuffy little cabin did he begin to consider where he was and what it might mean.

Arendelle and the land around it were beautiful, that was obvious from his vista on the deck. It was tiny compared to his family lands, but he saw somewhere nicely compact and easily defensible, not like the disparate, often quarreling islands his father had to try to wrangle together.

As he had done repeatedly on the long journey – then to while away the long hours, now to make sure he had it down before the coronation – he reviewed what he knew about Arendelle and her royal family: a land settled by Vikings who must have been tired of pillage and rape; the oldest known named ruler was Tostig Wolfshammer, who was most likely at least a semi-mythical figure. First king known from contemporary chronicles: Harald Haraldsson. There had been a female heir, Ystringa, back in the semi-mythical days who had been killed by a cousin on her coronation day – at the orders of Odin, lending the story still more trappings of fiction. More recently, after centuries of passing over female heirs based on that precedent, a Queen Katarina had ruled alone for several years before marrying; she would be the new Queen Elsa's great-great-great-grandmother. The last ruling queen had been Janna, Queen Elsa's great-great-aunt, who left no living children.

Hans had learned all this because he believed it would be important, on this first journey as his family's envoy, to comport himself well. A part of that was showing respect and knowledge of the land in which he found himself.

He leaned his forearms on the deck railing and wondered if he had time for another cup of coffee before the gates opened. He thought it would be very pleasant to sip coffee on the deck, enjoying the breeze off the water and watching the bustle of final preparations in the square outside the castle. The weather here was some of the most enjoyable he had ever known – warm and breezy and dry, with none of the sticky heat and humidity of summer in the Southern Isles. He could learn to very much enjoy mornings like this.

Maybe he could forgo the coffee though – this seemed like the perfect time to get to know Arendelle a bit better, and make sure he knew the prime spot to be when the gates were opened. The coronation was to start in the afternoon, but surely they would let dignitaries in long before?

He wasn't sure on that, which was a disconcertingly alien feeling – he had learned young that knowledge could be power, in such cases as forcing his older brothers to let him play too, or he might accidentally let slip in the wrong ear things he knew they had done. He did not like being in the dark – but about the actual workings of Arendelle today, rather than its history, it appeared that _everyone_ was in the dark, even about such mundane things as what time the gates would open.

But he supposed some of the citizens of Arendelle might know – another good reason to go out now. Most of his status would not lower themselves to speak to commoners unless they had to, but Hans prided himself on not being such a snob – and not taking himself that seriously. There could be no kings – or princes – without the goodwill of their subjects.

So he called for his horse and rode out into Arendelle. It really was a charming city – clean, wide streets; nice-looking people; that beautiful backdrop of mountains. He could see himself very much enjoying his time here – he had already gotten permission from his father to stay after the coronation, if the queen was amenable, to get to know the land and people better.

He went first through the city itself, admiring the neat little houses, most of them built from wood, a few larger ones of stone. People here, he knew from his research, were primarily involved in fishing or logging – these appeared to be prosperous trades. There was a little market square in the center of town, but it was deserted – everyone was at the larger square outside the castle. That hopefully meant there would be open gates before afternoon; people could only be patient for so long, and commoners had less patience than most, Hans thought.

He rode for the castle to join the revels then, heading past the docks towards the causeway that led the dollop of land in the fjord on which the royal family lived. As he rode, he did another review in his head, this time considering what was said of that family in light of what he had already seen of the real Arendelle.

Clearly, the story of the gates being kept locked was true, though he had his doubts that they had been for as long as rumor had it – it seemed more likely that they simply were not opened terribly often. But along with that came all the rumors about _why_ they had been locked. These ranged from a mental malady to one of the princesses having had a disfiguring accident to the entire family having been murdered and replaced by imposters. Hans' personal favorite – though of course he believed not a word of it – was that the two princesses hated each other so much that they regularly tried to kill one another, and had to be kept locked away.

The most likely explanation, he personally thought, was that one of the family members did have something wrong, perhaps a chronic illness – one of Hans' brothers had refused to be seen in public for months at a time due to particularly pernicious adolescent acne. Such things did happen.

Both princesses, the one to be crowned and her younger sister, were due to make an appearance at the coronation, so nothing too hideous could have afflicted them – or so Hans hoped; he at times had a nervous stomach. More than likely, most of what was said of Arendelle and the princesses was distorted between the source and the distant Southern Isles. Hans knew that was what his father must believe, because he had made the offer of marrying sons to either princess, or both of them. Since he had been graciously turned down on both counts, neither princess must have been thought unmarriageable.

There were many more ships arriving at the docks now as the day slipped towards noon, and many well-dressed people heading for the castle grounds. Hans recognized no one else as obviously royal and almost no one was ahorse. These were both good things – he would stand out more.

Just as he was reveling in the idea that no one could possibly miss him, someone ran into his horse.


	9. Chapter 7

******Let me apologize here to Toastyann for the use of the** name Lars in the last chapter - I swear, I wrote it before I read your story! Your Lars seems much nicer (er, maybe) than this one. And probably smarter. And probably doesn't smell as bad. And would treat his reindeer, if he had any, like valued members of his family. And if he didn't, Kristoff would deal with it at that later point in his life much more effectively, I'm sure! May the two never be confused.  


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**Chapter 7**

Anna finally fell asleep just when the sky was lightening to dawn outside her window, long after she had decided rest was going to be impossible. She had been up and down all night, unable to resist finding the source of every interesting noise. Her mind felt as if it were on a careening ride she had long since lost control of, so she might as well enjoy it.

For about four hours, she was dead to the waking world. She slept through the horns heralding the arrival of coronation day. The racket in the corridors was loud, continuous, and even Elsa's door opened and closed more than once – whether she wanted it or not, Elsa was receiving help, possibly to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't lock herself in again. Through it all, Anna lay sprawled on her bed, oblivious.

At midmorning – after a series of knocks and following a brief discussion with Elsa, who rolled her eyes and said that if Anna wouldn't get up, they had her express royal permission to push her out of bed – the new master of household affairs, hired only the week before to assist Per in assisting Elsa, was quietly, nervously tapping again on Anna's door.

Inside, Anna did not so much as stir.

Another knock – a bit harder – and she pulled her pillow over her head.

"Try a boot," Per said, walking by with Elsa's polished shoes. "She's a sound sleeper. When she sleeps at all."

"Are you sure? I don't want to upset her."

Per smiled. "I think it will take more than that to upset Princess Anna today, Kai. If I'm wrong, you may tell her the blame is mine."

It wasn't a kick, but Kai did try a fist, and was finally rewarded with an indeterminate noise that might have been Anna starting to wake up.

"Princess Anna?" he said timidly.

No response.

"Princess Anna?"

Per came back, now carrying more shoes. He leaned past Kai. "Princess Anna, your sister will be opening the gates within the hour."

Inside the room, there was the sound of sudden, frantic activity, and a crash that might have been Anna falling out of bed.

Per smiled. "Eager young lady, no different from any other." And he walked away with Kai following flummoxed in his wake, wondering if his job was always going to be quite so peculiar.

Anna scrambled up from where she had fallen, stood stock still waiting for her head to clear, then cried to no one at all except herself, "It's coronation day!" Then she said it again, just in case it stopped being true. It didn't. "Coronation day!" She threw her blankets back on the bed, and ran towards the window – then stopped, wondering if the light was right for anyone to see through it. She pulled back and glanced in the mirror: nightgown fallen off one shoulder and revealing a bit more than even the French might find appropriate, hair in a terribly elaborate series of knots and whorls around her head... Maybe she would get dressed, _then_ have a look out over Arendelle. Just in case.

Her dress was perfect, she thought, just as she'd wanted it. Letting someone help her put it on would have made it even more perfect, but that would take too long, so she just did it herself and hoped it would be to Elsa's standards. She stalled out for a few minutes before the mirror, wondering if the low cut of the bodice had been a bad idea, or if it was too late to ask for powder – her shoulders suddenly looked bony and awkward and all those freckles seemed hideously bright against the dark upper half of the dress.

Well, too late to do anything about it now. She jerked a comb through her hair, braided and gathered and coiled the whole unruly mass of it atop her head, and tried to make her bangs lay flat, finally just licking her hand to smooth them down. Choker around her neck, a brief search to find the ribboned comb she planned to wear – how had it gotten under her bed? - but before she could put it in, she heard voices out in the corridor, including one that was unmistakeably Elsa's.

Pinning the comb in with one hand – if it wasn't straight, surely someone would tell her – and pulling the door closed with the other, she got out just in time to hear Elsa say, "Yes, I suppose so. Tell the guards they may open them." A glimpse of her face, then Elsa was gone again, the door clicking firmly shut behind her.

Anna decided to believe Elsa hadn't seen her. Or maybe she was too nervous to talk. Anna would have been nervous too, if she was being crowned, though usually when she was nervous she just talked more.

But nevermind, nevermind – she had heard what Elsa had said, they were about to open the gates! Anna didn't just run down the hall, she _galloped_, and took stairs three at a time, and nevermind – again! - if she scuffed her shoes, there would (hopefully) be plenty of time to change before the ceremony, and she probably had another pair that would work just as well. She was still moving so quickly when she reached the entrance hall that she almost ran into the doors. (And she did find herself wondering what the expression on Elsa's face would be if she showed up later with a black eye.)

She had made it in time – just in time. As she leaned against the banister to catch her breath, Elsa's guards arrived – and they were carrying keys. Keys! She straightened, hands folded in expectant glee, eyes widening, watching. One of the guards smiled at her; the other was busy fitting one of the keys into the lock.

When he turned it, Anna's breath caught.

Each of the guards took a handle of the double doors. They pulled them open together – slowly, so slowly.

Anna leaned forward. She could see bright summer sunlight coming through the widening opening, so bright that she was momentarily blinded. She could hear voices – people who sounded as excited as she felt, exclamations and calls to others to look.

And then, after 14 years, Anna and the outside world met again.

People were surging forward to see in, the guards were shouting instructions, struggling to be heard over the cheering from the crowd. The noise and pushing only grew louder as word spread that the doors were open. It was the easiest thing in the world for Anna to slip out, walk right past the guards, and disappear into the throng.

Freedom.

Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to her, ironically trying too hard to catch a glimpse of anyone inside the castle. She wished them silent luck; if they were hoping to see Elsa, someone would probably have to drag her out by her elaborately coiffed hair. Anna would have been happy to go out as her representative, but of course no one, especially Elsa herself, had asked her.

Maybe she would suggest something similar after the coronation – she could be Elsa's envoy! It would be the perfect solution for both of them; Elsa could stay happily tucked away to play with papers, while Anna went out to see everyone and everything. At least until she got married, anyway – then she would go traveling, just to see the world, before the children arrived. Then they would all come back to Arendelle, because the castle was in desperate need of more life.

She had it all planned before she was through the outer walls. After that, coherent thought was mostly gone, replaced by the whirlwind of excited cacophonies to her senses: the sights, the sounds, the smells! There were all sorts of different people – some in fancy clothes like hers, some in clothes less elaborate but nonetheless clean and neat, a few who looked (and smelled) like they were wearing old horse blankets. There were fat people and thin people, tall people and short people, people with fancy hairstyles and people with hats and people with no hair at all. Men with long mustaches and longer beards, and men with bare faces and broad smiles. Ladies in outfits so lavishly extravagant they must have taken days to put on, and ladies with hair that appeared to have been chopped with a knife. Every kind of person she could ever have imagined, and then some.

And the noise – she had stopped noticing just how hushed the castle really was. Now there was talking, there was singing, there were children squabbling and someone playing a fiddle and horses' hooves clip-clop-clacking over cobblestones and vendors shouting goods and prices and enticements. And she could smell food cooking and the water and people and flowers and a million more things she couldn't identify. Even the ground felt strange, rougher and more uneven than the courtyards inside the castle grounds, which had interlocked paving stones instead of cobbles.

She felt like she had the first time she'd been allowed her own glass of wine at dinner – dazed and dizzy and wholeheartedly in love with everything she saw. Her whole world was suddenly a whirl of color and sound and an almost overwhelming stir of emotion, somewhere between trepidation and elation.

Safely away from the castle and the eyes of the guards, Anna made herself pause to catch her breath – she was in danger of hyperventilating. It would be her only and last day out if she fainted in the middle of the square on Elsa's coronation day. Elsa would probably have her locked in the dungeons and throw away the key.

She had a limited amount of time before she would be expected back at the castle – she had to think, make sure she got to do everything, everything she could, in case it really was an additional decade and a half before she got another chance. But it was hard to think, with so much going on, and besides that, it was a lot harder to figure out where she was when she was in the midst of everything, rather than looking out over it. Even now, she could see the castle walls, but she wasn't entirely sure where she was.

The causeway – towards Arendelle proper. She could walk towards the water. She went more slowly now, carefully – to make sure she kept to the right direction, and because she was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

But she wouldn't go back. Not yet. She squared her shoulders – let them stare at the freckles! - and walked stoutly on. She had every right to be here, she was Princess Anna _of Arendelle_, and she wanted to see her sister's kingdom. Towards the water, she thought again, reminding herself, hoping it would help slow her racing heart – she was going towards the water.

But she didn't seem to be getting any closer. And now, further from the walls and the main square, there were still crowds, but they didn't look quite as respectable as those she had seen earlier. And a lot of them were looking at her – and some of them were whispering and smiling in a way that made her feel very exposed.

She put her chin up and tried to pay no attention – but maybe she walked just a little bit faster.

"What's the hurry, sweetheart?" someone called, and what sounded like half the crowd broke into raucous laughter.

Anna ignored them. Walked on. Hoped they couldn't tell that her hands were shaking. She folded them together, but that slowed her down, so she let them fall back and clenched them into fists. A little better.

"Hey!" the same voice shouted, egged on by the laughter. "Slow down. We don't bite."

"Unless that's what you like," someone else said, and there was another round of uproarious cawing.

Annoyance overcame her fear and better judgment – who were these men to ruin her day? And did they think she didn't know what they meant? She had read every romance she could get her hands on – she knew all about courtship and marriage.

Impulsiveness took over. "Sorry, I prefer men who don't smell like old horse blankets," she called back over her shoulder.

There was a moment of silence, then more hysterical laughter. She heard them ribbing the man who'd called to her, and she felt a little thrill of triumph, but she didn't turn around to look. She made herself keep walking, head high.

"You want to say that again?" the man called. "Maybe a little nearer this time?"

Anna walked a little faster. Nevermind the satisfaction, she probably shouldn't have said anything. Too late now, though.

"You hear me, sweetheart?" He was getting closer, much closer. "Maybe I'll take you somewhere to show you what happens to girls with smart mouths."

She was itching to say something back – something like "more smart in my mouth than in your head," but she wasn't sure that even made sense, she had already decided any more talking would be a bad idea, and it would be quite difficult to speak at all with her breath coming in such hitching, verge-of-panic gasps. She was almost running.

Then the man's large, rough hand started to close around her arm, and she _did_ run, hitching her skirt up and wondering why she had chosen such a long one, the stupid thing was going to trip her. She heard him curse and take off after her, and others laughing and chasing them both, enjoying the sport. She was moving as fast as she had earlier, faster, but now she was running blind. She had no idea where she was going, pushing past people and miraculously avoiding things she would in normal circumstances likely have tripped over even at a leisurely stroll. She ran in whatever direction her feet carried her, for what felt like hours. The gasps had turned to panicked attempts to get some, _any_ oxygen into her lungs. She didn't know if the men were still behind her, but she knew she couldn't go much further. There was a horrible stabbing ache in her side, and her legs were wobbly. She looked back over her shoulder, she had to stop, she couldn't go any further-

Head still turned, the rest of her slammed at full speed in something large and hard and furry.

She bounced back and went sprawling, landing in a graceless tangle of arms and legs and stiff skirt. The something she had run into snorted. She could see its legs and hooves.

A horse.

Before she could get up, the horse's rider had leapt off and was kneeling by her side, offering her a hand to help her up. "My lady, are you hurt?" a voice said, and she couldn't help but notice, and nevermind the circumstances, that it was a deep and melodious and highly cultured kind of voice.

"I'm _fine_," she said – more a huff, really, because the little breath she'd had left had been knocked out of her in the fall and she was feeling highly irritated. "Though no thanks to your-"

Then she looked up, and words deserted her. The man leaning over her might have come from a storybook. His dark green eyes looked into hers with grave, caring concern, his brows drawn together to frame a lock of chestnut hair that had fallen across his face. His lips creased into a smile, dimpled on the left, beneath an aquiline nose and high cheekbones.

If she hadn't been before, Anna now became a firm believer in love at first sight.

"A moment," he said, and gave her again that reassuring smile, then he was up and pulling a shortsword from his belt. "Gentlemen, do we have a problem?"

Anna, still on the ground in a heap of skirts, turned her head and watched the expression on the faces of her pursuers change from anger to something like savage glee. "You the dandy boyfriend?" one asked.

"Nice little sword you got there," said another. "You know what they say about men with little swords and -"

But the lovely man cut him off. "I am Prince Hans, of the Southern Isles. Unless you'd like to get to know the brig of my ship – or perhaps the queen's dungeons – you'd best be gone."

Their expressions turned to anger, but after a moment to posture and gather their pride – the main pursuant brave enough to spit on the cobbles, but well away from the lovely man's boots – they swaggered back in the direction from which they'd come. Anna bit her tongue to stop herself yelling something after them.

The lovely man – Hans, _Prince_ Hans – turned back to her. When he saw she was still on the ground, his forehead creased in concern. "My lady, are you sure you're not hurt? I can get help, here, I'll just-"

She clambered to her feet – why _was_ she still sitting on the ground? - and quickly tried to smooth her skirt. "No, I'm fine, really. Just fine. Not even a scratch. See? I run into things all the time, but usually not while being chased, that was different, but-" She was babbling. She made herself stop, think. "Thank you. For rescuing me, I mean."

His face brightened into a wide smile, his eyes – they were so green, such a deep green – locked with hers. "I've never had a greater pleasure," he said. "Though honestly, the sword is just decorative. I doubt it's sharp enough to cut cheese."

She giggled at that. "Saved by a cheese knife. Every girl's secret dream come true." He laughed with her then – when was the last time someone had laughed with her? She honestly could not remember.

"I'm Prince Hans," he said again, when their laughter had tapered off comfortably. "Of the Southern Isles."

"Princess Anna," she replied, and dipped into a brief curtsey. "Of Arendelle."

His mouth dropped open, then he sank into a deep, flustered bow. "Your highness," he said without lifting his head, "my apologies. I didn't know with whom I was speaking."

For a moment, Anna was confused. Then she realized he probably thought she was _Elsa_ – she almost burst out laughing again, but managed to control it. Just.

"And I apologize for running into you with my horse," he went on. "As well as for leaving you on the ground. And for-"

Finally feeling like she had her amusement under control – he was being so gallant, she didn't want to hurt his feelings – she said, "It's okay, it's okay! I'm not _that_ princess of Arendelle. I mean, I'm _a_ princess of Arendelle, just not that one. That's my sister. Elsa. Princess Elsa. Queen Elsa." She gave him a sheepish smile. "She's not really the type to run into horses. Or run at all, really." She cocked her head, thinking. "I don't know if I've ever seen her run."

Hans was smiling at her, indulgent, and she could feel herself blushing. Oh, well – maybe it would hide the freckles. "I know who you are, Princess Anna. And I think I like this princess of Arendelle better," he said, and she added confused-mouth-hanging-open to the blush before she was – somewhat – able to get control of her own traitorous face.

Had he really just said that? Sure, the books she read had all sorts of dashing, handsome men and romantic first meetings, but they had haunted castles too, and the closest thing she'd seen to a ghost in Arendelle's castle was Elsa. Also, the heroines in the books were always beautiful and charming (and prone to fainting around ghosts), not gawky and awkward (and prone to running into horses). Still though, the way he was looking at her – that smile like he couldn't help smiling just to see her, eyes locked on hers like he never wanted to see anything else, and all that despite the blush and the freckles and a smile of her own that felt a little manic.

She heard music – soaring, triumphant music, bells pealing and horns blowing. The sound of falling in love? It was hard to tell where it was coming from, harder still to care. Who could it be for except her, for her and this triumphant moment, for her and for Hans?

Elsa.

Several words passed through her mind in rapid succession, but fortunately not through her mouth, because they were probably not words a princess of Arendelle was supposed to know. The coronation was about to start.

She smiled again at Hans, hoping it looked apologetic rather than as panicked as she felt. "Sorry – I have to go. The coronation." She turned back towards the castle, but there was no obvious sign of the gate. She looked back to Hans. "Um – I don't suppose you know the, uh... the way in?"

He smiled and pointed. "Everyone seems to be going that way."

She squinted through the crowd and saw the gates, no more than 20 yards away. "Oh, yeah – thanks!" She started running that way, then skidded to a stop and waved back to Hans. "Bye!"

"Will I see you at the ball tonight?" he called.

Anna's heart soared. "Of course!"

A beat, while she gazed at him from a distance. Then she remembered again – coronation.

She ran, hitching her skirt up once more and holding it with one hand, clutching desperately at her hair to keep her comb in place with the other. She wondered if Hans was watching her. She wondered if she wanted him to or not.

Still, she tried to run a little differently – more like she imagined Elsa would run. If Elsa ever ran.


	10. Chapter 8

**Several personal thank-yous are in order before we get back to business: to NicPie for catching a mistake that both I and my in-house reviewer missed (though he would deny it and claim I added it later, I'm sure). To Manda Louise for offering the ****_best_** **critiques and advice, which give me challenges to rise to. To LaraAelric for letting me bounce off ideas about Hans, which are more fun than just letting him be. And to Toastyann for the battle of the band and bad puns, which are, snow joke, a nice break from all the emotional turmoil herein. You guys are the coolest - pun _totally intentional_, so let it go.  
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**Worth noting, the dialogue between Anna and Elsa in this chapter follows the film almost exactly - not 100% throughout, but most of it is close, as I'm sure you'll notice. It won't happen often - in this case, I liked what was already there contrasted with what's going on in Elsa's head. I hope that's alright with everyone.  
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**We now return you to your regularly scheduled program. Enjoy the show! **

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**Chapter 8**

Elsa stood at her window, looking out at the world below. It was perhaps not the best balm for her nerves, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. People came in and out of her room, calling her away and offering temporary distractions, but as soon as they were gone, she couldn't resist returning to her vigil. The crowds down there, such an impossible multitude, all of them here to stare at her, to gawk and point, to see the spectacle of a crown placed on her head.

Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together.

They dressed her, like a child, in the long, form-fitting dress, fussing with the high collar; the heavy cloak, long enough to trail behind her as she walked and wrap her slight form if she turned; the narrow slippers. She answered questions – yes, it looked perfect, thank you; no, no one to carry the train, it would be fine for a few hours – but said nothing else, letting her maids chatter and exclaim around her. They felt the need to try to bring her into the conversation. She smiled for them, all she felt capable of doing.

They brought food between dressing her and doing her hair, and she was vaguely surprised they didn't try to feed her. Sigrid came in, saw Elsa had not so much as touched any of it, and clucked at her about being too skinny and needing to take care of herself. Elsa attempted to laugh it off, failed, and for a moment was terrified she going to start to cry instead. She felt so lonely, so alone it tugged at her, a physical pain in her chest.

They brushed her hair into airy fineness around her head and down her back, exclaiming over the color and length and thickness, then twisted and turned it into a complex bundle of rounds atop her head. They put powder on her face, and spread stuff across her eyelids, and put a little brush to her eyebrows, which she thought was well past excessive. But still, she said nothing.

And in between, she looked out the window.

They brought her a mirror when they were done with her. She tried to see herself as the strangers arriving would see her – as the queen of Arendelle, not as Elsa. A young woman perhaps a little taller than average, thin and straight-backed to the point of rigidity. And looking, she seemed to see bits of everyone but herself: her father, her mother, even Anna. The Elsa inside was nowhere in evidence.

Maybe that was for the best.

Per and Kai came to escort her downstairs. At the entrance hall, they were met with a contingent of uniformed guards who fell into a clearly practiced formation around her. Who had they practiced with? Not her, certainly. Their presence made her feel still more vulnerable and exposed, like they drew additional eyes towards her. They walked across the square to the little chapel where the crowning would take place. She stared straight ahead, ignoring the voices washing over and around her, because it was the only way to control her terror.

"Conceal it," she whispered under her breath, hardly moving her lips but nonetheless needing to say the words aloud. "_Conceal_. Don't let it show."

The chapel was already full, an audience of the closest allies of the kingdom, the highest ranking guests, and those confident enough in their own self importance to finagle themselves a place. She knew the names of some who should be here, but the faces were uniformly unfamiliar. She wondered what they thought when they saw her – they with the unfair advantage of knowing exactly who she was. What did they see? _Who_ did they see?

The singing began when she entered, and she felt absurdly uncomfortable at this announcement of her presence, as if some part of her, that part she couldn't see in the mirror, had retained the impossible hope that it could all be done in secret. And the songs were beautiful, intricate, harmonized hymns, many of them in language so archaic they sounded like the weaving of magic spells. Voices rose in triumph and rejoicing as Elsa made her way to where the bishop and Anna waited for her at the altar. Those invited to watch rose at her entrance, and she caught glimpses of their faces, expressions of joy or curiosity, of surprise or outright suspicion.

She walked slowly, head held up and gloved hands folded before her, just as she had been instructed to do. For a second, her eyes caught Anna's; Anna grinned and mouthed something indiscernible – but nonetheless, it made Elsa feel a little bit better. She remembered when they were very young, and there were times when nothing could calm Anna except a smile and reassuring words from Elsa. She was grateful now for Anna offering the same.

After a small eternity, she finally reached the front of the chapel, where her official fate awaited her on beautiful velvet cushions: crown, orb, scepter. After this, the rest of her life would be spent as Queen Elsa of Arendelle.

The bishop spoke the ancient, rhythmic words that now, like the songs, retained much of their power through the strength of tradition rather than what they actually said. Protection, caregiving, compassion, peace – each royal virtue had to be described in lengthy, verbose declamations. A few times, Elsa saw Anna try (mostly unsuccessfully) to stifle yawns. The bishop's voice was so soporific that Elsa struggled to pay full attention herself, in spite of the adrenaline flooding her veins. Anna, when she wasn't yawning, kept glancing surreptitiously out at the audience, but Elsa had no idea who or what she might be looking at.

Then it was, finally, Elsa's moment. She bowed her head and closed her eyes as she felt the crown pushed into her hair. It was light, symbolic, but she knew the true weight of what it meant. She rose – and there proffered before her were the orb and scepter.

In her mind, ice twined up the candlestick, encased the round ornament. But this time, it kept going, even when she put them down. It spread, and everyone would know. People would be hurt.

Deadly, pernicious cold.

She forced the image away, reached out.

"Gloves!" the bishop whispered, so fiercely that she recoiled. It had been many years since anyone had spoken to her in such a tone of voice.

She looked down at her hands, the moment eternal. Slowly, one finger at a time, she peeled their silk away, trying to ignore the tremors. She knew the bishop could see it, and probably Anna as well. What were they thinking? What did they imagine the problem might be?

Deep breath and she held it, willing herself, pleading with herself to remain calm. She reached out, wrapped her fingers around metal, got the best grip she could in trembling hands slick with perspiration. She held the orb and scepter against bare skin, turned back towards her audience, tilted her chin up so perhaps they might not see the terror in her eyes.

The next part was short. She knew that. She had listened to it, repeatedly, read to her; had read it herself. A brief recitation, her official proclamation, and it was over.

But time was crawling – she tried to focus on the bishop's voice, but her head felt thick and sluggish, her lungs unable to draw breath, her ears cottony with the rushing-booming of her pulse. She made the mistake of looking down. She had to know. The bishop's voice droned, droned, droned.

Ice was creeping around the orb, up the scepter.

Her breath caught, harsh and sudden. It took every ounce of control she had left not to drop them, not to run away, to hide in her room and refuse to come out again, ever. Not to cry.

The bishop's voice rose, triumphant.

Elsa's hands shook.

"...Queen Elsa of Arendelle!"

She all but threw the orb and scepter back to their cushion, grabbed her gloves, had them back in place before she had turned back to her audience, who had risen to their feet. She trembled all over, a mixture of exhaustion and relief. She forced a smile to her face. Outside, the bells were ringing again, triumphant, and she could hear the cheering.

The worst was over. Now, she just had to get through an evening of meeting and greeting and making small talk. Only a few more hours. She could handle a few more hours.

She looked over at Anna, who grinned and gave her a round of silent clapping. Struck with a sudden wave of love for her little sister – who looked somewhere between a child playing dress up and a self-conscious young woman who had no idea how beautiful she really was – Elsa smiled at her. Not the controlled, brief curve of her lips, but a genuine smile that reached her eyes. Anna's whole face lit up. They exchanged not a word – and didn't need to.

Then the guards were back and she was escorted out again, back to the castle, as she breathed deeply, reveling in the relief still washing through her. Soon, the ballroom would be opened up to those invited into the home of the royal family, but neither Elsa nor Anna would be there then. Etiquette called for them to be officially introduced only after their guests had arrived. Elsa was expected to be in the small royal receiving room beside the ballroom, where she could receive today not visitors, but word of who had arrived. She wasn't sure if Anna was supposed to wait with her or not, but suspected she wouldn't do so unless forced. Anna never had been very good at sitting still for long.

Elsa then realized, alone in the receiving room, that she didn't actually know if Anna would sit still or not. That took her aback, realizing she was projecting onto 18-year-old Anna the four-year-old she remembered and the brief glimpses she had had of the girl she had become since.

No – not girl. Young woman. Anna was as much an adult as Elsa was, old enough to be able to choose to sit still, or not. But also to marry, have children, leave Arendelle if that was what she wanted, and to be consulted about such things. Not continue to be kept locked away in Elsa's isolation.

Elsa slumped back in her chair and rubbed her face with her hands. After today, she would make Anna her first priority as queen. The last 14 years were not Anna's fault, Anna was normal, Anna should not continue to be punished for her sister's failings. She would talk to her tomorrow, find out what she wanted, what she could do and where she could go.

They would need to discuss marriage; that might be the one thing not entirely negotiable, because Arendelle would need an heir. Though she knew her father had attempted to arrange a marriage for her, Elsa was not sure she had the same faith in her ability to remain safe in such a situation; marriages required consummation, and consummation could lead to children. Elsa was far from comfortable envisioning trying to remain calm and in control in either scenario.

So that meant Anna would need to marry and have children. But Elsa had no idea if Anna would relish such an opportunity, or react with horror, or be indifferent but accepting. She knew absolutely nothing about Anna's dreams or hopes or aspirations. But perhaps the best way to remedy that would be to take the time, however long that might be, to arrange for her a happy, secure marriage to someone trustworthy and good. There were those in Elsa's employ who could provide her with information on people; Per would know who they were. She would talk to Anna, then to Per. She would consider possible matches, as her father had done, and find the best person for her sister.

She felt better than she had in days; she had a plan, something to focus on, something to help both Anna and Arendelle. She sat up straight again, and waited patiently for word of arrivals to reach her.

Waiting patiently was one of the things she did best.

Almost two hours later, the master of ceremonies – yet another new hire – came for her. She rose, for once feeling almost as calm as she looked, because it was almost over. Just a little more, and this day would be done. Time to go out and smile and make conversation, and maybe she wouldn't be as terrible at it as she feared – because really, when had she tried it before? And when it was all over, she would ask Anna to come and see her tomorrow.

"We're running a bit behind schedule, your majesty," the master of ceremonies said. "It took us some time to find Princess Anna, and she asked for a few minutes to repin her hair. She should be down shortly. I hope that's alright?"

Anna sprinting down the hall to get back in time would likely leave her hair in an even greater mess than before – maybe she really wasn't so different now from that four-year-old. "Yes, that's fine," Elsa said. "Of course."

She followed the master of ceremonies – she couldn't seem to bring his name to mind no matter how she tried – back through the narrow hallway that led to the ballroom. There was still no sign of Anna, but that was alright. The near-palpable relief she felt was like healing. Elsa felt almost competent, almost capable, almost safe. It was wonderful.

"Are you ready, your majesty?"

She nodded, threading her hands together before her, back straight, head held high, all as expected. And as expected, she walked in slowly, small steps, and looked neither left nor right. They announced her name as she stepped up on the dais, and then, only then, did she survey the room, all those people. They had stopped dancing and eating and conversing to gawk at her, and she gave them her carefully controlled, carefully unrevealing smile. But she also allowed the smile to linger, because though the faces were curious, most of them also appeared friendly.

There was a scuffle of noise and voices - "Sorry, sorry!" - from the left side of the room and behind closed doors, because she was meant to enter from the right. Someone fumbled with the lock, pulled them open. Then Anna came stumbling in, all but running, and clearly she had _been_ running, she was breathing hard and her face was flushed.

Elsa could almost hear the mirth in his voice when the master of ceremonies said, "Princess Anna of Arendelle." Anna was trying now to recreate the same straight-backed posture Elsa had, even looked back at her and quickly folded her hands the same way, but she was also still trying to catch her breath, making the attempt mostly unsuccessful and probably much less graceful than she was hoping for.

Elsa was surprised to feel her lips quirk with amusement.

Then the master of ceremonies was speaking quietly to Anna, and Anna was protesting, and then he put his hands on her arms and all but bodily lifted her to the dais, where she stood with hunched shoulders and looked confused, still gasping for breath. By then, it was all Elsa could do not to laugh.

Emboldened by the successful crowning and her plans and her amusement, she turned to smile at Anna and said, "Hi."

Anna visibly started and turned with wide eyes. "Hi... me?" For the second time that day, Elsa got to see her whole face come alight with pleasure. "Hi!"

Wanting to extend the moment – she had it, and it might not come again – Elsa said, "You look beautiful."

Anna, if such were possible, flushed still brighter red, grinning and flustered. "Oh, uh... thanks. But you look beautifuller. I mean, not fuller, not anything like that, if that means- … I mean, you look more beautiful."

"Thank you." Then Elsa had to come up with something else, because Anna's face was so open and hopeful and eager. She looked out at the crowd of people for inspiration, where thankfully most were no longer staring, food and dancing in the end more enticing than the new queen and her sister. "So this is what a party looks like," she finally said; it was the best she could come up with. Maybe small talk would not prove to be her forte.

But then, it might not be Anna's, either: "It's warmer than I thought," she said brightly, and seemed to think this a perfectly normal statement rather than something of a non sequitur. Elsa almost laughed, again, the closest she'd come in a very long time. It felt nice.

Continue it, her mind was still begging, because at this moment, she almost didn't feel alone. She searched for something, anything, a person to point out or a strange noise. Then she had it: "And what is that amazing smell?"

Anna sniffed deeply, closing her eyes, and the answer hit Elsa so that they wound up speaking together - "Chocolate!" - and then Elsa did finally laugh, she couldn't help it, just for a moment, while Anna dissolved into uncontrollable giggles beside her, for the second time in five minutes hardly able to stand. She leaned towards Elsa, seeking support, reaching out for her arm. Elsa quickly and almost unconsciously stepped to one side.

Fortunately, Anna didn't seem to notice, or if she did, to care. She finally got control of herself and beamed at her sister. "I wish it could always be like this."

"Me, too," Elsa said. And she smiled again, yielding to the impulse, and it felt nice, so nice. It felt _wonderful_.

But then it hit her, hard and fast, and the lightness was gone, in its place abrupt terror as she realized how much free rein she had been giving to her emotions. She had warned herself, threatened herself about today for the better part of three years. She had just never factored happiness into the equation. Fear, anger, sorrow – these she had been ready for. But not this. Not what Anna trailed after her like footprints.

In her mind, she saw Anna at four, throwing herself into the snow, and except for the added maturity, her face was the same, grinning and flushed and open in its joy. And it was Elsa who had caused that joy to be taken away. She had killed it, as efficiently and wholly as she had almost killed Anna. To offer it back, even temporarily, would be cruelty beyond measure.

"But it can't," Elsa said. And when Anna's face fell, Elsa felt her heart go with it.

Anna was never going to be able to hide her own emotions, that much was clear – disappointment and ire were at war in her expression. "Why _not_?" she asked, and it was bitter, deeply bitter. Justifiable, of course; Elsa would have been bitter too, in Anna's place. Maybe she would find it in herself to accept Elsa's secrecy one day, even believe it was for her own good. But not today.

"It just can't," Elsa said – gently, she hoped.

Anna was struggling; her lip trembled and her eyebrows drew down, like a child fighting tears. She swallowed audibly. "Excuse me for a minute," she finally managed to get out, her voice shaky and weak, and then she fled from the dais.

Elsa could have called her, could have ordered her back. Could have pointed out that the position of sister was inferior to that of queen in the presence of others, and Anna leaving before permission was granted risked undermining royal authority over every person in the room. She could have, but she didn't. She twined her hands together, took deep, calming breaths, and stood there alone. So very, very alone.

Soon, people were brought up to meet her, and she wondered if there was a length of time that must be passed, or if her nameless master of ceremonies had made the decision to allow her those few minutes alone with Anna. She accepted bows and curtsies and well-wishes, exchanged the expected pleasantries but no longer had anything more to offer. She was drained, exhausted. Anna had brought out laughter, but now the tight little smile was almost more than she could manage. She found herself wondering how much longer this would go on – her feet hurt and her lower back ached from standing, the heat of the room had grown suffocating, and her head was pounding from lack of food and lack of sleep and the feeling of weight in that awful crown.

She scanned the crowd as surreptitiously as she could, but there was no sign of Anna. Had she gone back up to her room, or outside to join the likely rowdier parties there? Would someone keep an eye on her?

Wherever she was, Elsa hoped she was being careful.


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The moment Hans met Princess Anna of Arendelle, he knew the dreams he had come here to seek could come true. She defied easy description - "adorable" might be the best way he could describe her, if anyone were to ask – but maybe that was the best part, especially as he had feared she would be similar to her sister. Not that he actually had any firsthand knowledge of the queen-to-be, but the stories were not promising: cold, aloof, adept at manipulation but refusing to give anything of herself. And Hans' father was of the position that a woman who refused to marry was unnatural.

Hans did not particularly care if that was true or not – as long as there were still women who wanted to marry, then good riddance to the ones who did not. Plenty of marriageable women to go around, as with marriageable men; the trick, of course, was in putting together the right combination of the two.

And when Hans considered Princess Anna, he saw potential there. He took a careful mental portrait to tuck away in his mind – hair the color of the sun at set, eyes deep and guileless, pert nose, easy smile, and all those freckles across her nose and cheeks and shoulders. Pretty black and green dress, though she was too petite to really fill it. Scuffed shoes. He thought she made a nice contrast to himself, but in a very compatible way.

He watched her running back for the castle, clumsy and gangly in her haste. "Adorable" was definitely the word for her. She also left him eager – just in case – to see the new queen, her sister Elsa. Just in case she was, in the end, very similar. After all, many monarchs wrote none of their own correspondence, and who knew Elsa aside from what was in the letters they might have received? Maybe she just had overzealous advisers.

"Will I see you at the ball tonight?" he called after her, and he thought she was going to go headfirst off the raised walkway in her haste to turn around. When she did, she was grinning like a child.

"Of course!" She had a lovely, clear, carrying voice.

And she just stood there, a dreamy look on her face, so long that he wondered if he was going to have to walk her back to the castle. Then something clicked – he watched her eyes change – and she turned and ran on, holding her skirt up and her hair in place. It looked like she was attempting a small-stepped, controlled speed, but she was too coltish to pull it off.

Hans had been told the younger princess of Arendelle was 18, but if he had met her without knowing that, he probably would have guessed 15 and that would have been being generous. Three of his brothers had been married by 18, one already with a child expected at the same age. Hans himself, at 23, had been feeling pressured to marry for the better part of a decade – one of the reasons his father had agreed to let him take this trip, he knew, was in the hope that he might meet someone, preferably Queen Elsa. And Hans was not opposed to the idea, he just wanted to make sure he found the right person. If that was Queen Elsa, so be it – but it just might be Princess Anna.

He remounted his horse and set off at a leisurely pace towards the castle, thinking about Princess Anna as he went. Maybe she was feeble-minded, and that explained the closing up of the castle. But he didn't think so: she seemed naïve and a little silly, perhaps, but not feeble. If anything, there had been a spark of cleverness in her eyes that perhaps no one had ever tapped. There could be a lot of potential there, if nurtured by the right person.

Hans had been warned that Elsa would be a difficult proposition, and that much had been based on solid information, not rumor – she had broken off an arrangement for marriage to the heir of Leisalla before her parents' bodies grew cold, and had rebuked every offer since then. But very little had been said of her sister and heir. Hans wondered if she had simply been overlooked in the clamor to try and win the elder, who would surely be seen as the greater prize.

But Hans believed, having met the Princess Anna, that the greatest prize might well be his. He would not yet write off the queen entirely, but it seemed to him that she would have to be quite impressive to dissuade him from believing Princess Anna was the one he had come here hoping to meet. He would keep an eye on – and try to find excuses to speak to – both of the royal sisters tonight.

He identified himself and left his horse with the men at the gates, and was quickly escorted to a very good seat in the third row of the chapel – an esteemed place, he thought, considering some of the people who were here. Maybe Princess Anna had had a word with someone. That would be a good sign, would mean he had made an impression on her. He was pleased with the very thought of it.

While he waited for the formal ceremony to begin, he looked around, trying to get a feel for the crowd. They were not particularly threatening as competition, which was something of a relief. He did not know many people by sight; one of the perils of being the youngest child was that formal introductions were rare, as it was more important for people to get to know his oldest brothers. But he prided himself on having a sharp eye for both fashion and charisma, and he saw little on display here in the chapel in Arendelle. Most of the men were old or fat or both, or were with their wives. There were a scattered handful of younger, solo, and relatively attractive men, but he could find obvious faults with all of them – that one had clothes a good five years out of date; and this one kept scratching himself, likely a sign of illness that could well be catching. It was not a beautiful collection of people, and Hans decided they would offer little or no problem, particularly when he reminded himself of the way Princess Anna had looked at him.

The bishop was the first at the front of the chapel, directing his acolytes on the placement of the objects of office. Hans was most interested in the crown, which was a delicate little thing very different from the heavy, spiky, bejeweled ornament his father wore. It seemed likely this one had been commissioned just for the new queen, which might mean an unusual tradition here. He stored it away in his mind to ask Princess Anna about – a good potential conversation starter.

They brought in Princess Anna herself next; her name was announced, which seemed to surprise her, but there was no additional fanfare, she was just led to where she was to stand. Her hair was beginning to come loose from the knot at the back of her head, falling in tendrils around her neck.

Waiting, she fidgeted. Her hands twined together, she tapped her feet, she made halfhearted and unsuccessful attempts to fix her escaping hair. She visibly sighed several times, and even more visibly yawned, making him wonder if it was all a reaction to nervousness or if she was really so ill-mannered. Perhaps it was another symptom of all those years of isolation – she wasn't used to being on display, as most royals were, and having to consider what others would think.

After a few minutes, she spent some time surveying the crowd – and when her eyes found Hans, she grinned and waved. Maybe she just couldn't be bothered with conventional manners. He gave her a small wave and a quick smile in return, hoping she would get the message that he felt much the same way about convention, but his position here was more tenuous than hers.

Soon after, the music began, signaling the start of the ceremony. Hans saw Anna snap to attention, folding her hands demurely at her waist, though her posture still could have used some work. Then he turned his eyes to the entrance of the chapel to make sure he didn't miss the new queen's arrival.

A retinue of armed guards – swords and pikes he suspected were ceremonial – escorted her in, initially hiding her from Hans' view. But they fanned out to line the back wall and guard the doors – and Elsa of Arendelle was left to walk alone.

She was several inches taller than her sister, and clearly more in control of herself: of her bearing, her walk, her hands, her expressions. She was also strikingly, almost indescribably beautiful. Her hair was a white-blonde like none he had ever seen, her skin the pure color of cream, her eyes a blue like ice in the sun. She and Anna had features that clearly defined their relationship – the same noses and eyes and cheekbones – but the new queen appeared to have outgrown any trace of clumsy gawkiness she might once have possessed.

And yet, there was a childlike fear in her eyes, in the draw of her brow. The calm and poise were clearly hiding turmoil. It might simply be jitters from the day, but Hans suspected they went deeper than that. Considering the rumors, the isolation, he suspected it was Elsa, not Anna, who was the source of Arendelle's secrets.

He watched both sisters closely throughout the lengthy ceremony, Anna still yawning and fidgety and frequently glancing his way; Elsa looking as if it took every ounce of nerve she possessed to retain her poise and remain in place. He was now beyond intrigued by both of them, and nothing would do but to find out what, exactly, was being hidden in the kingdom of Arendelle.

Instead of going straight to the ballroom after the ceremony, he returned to the square and its crowds of commoners – the people who lived here and might be able to offer some clues to solve the mystery seemed preferable to a horde of visitors like himself in a stuffy room, swapping rumors over waltzes or plates of exotic foods. It would probably be several hours before the queen or the princess appeared, anyway.

He found a food stall that wasn't terribly crowded, bought some smoky-smelling sausage-and-bread thing he had absolutely no intention of eating as an excuse to speak to the vendor. Fortunately for him, the man appeared to be the talkative type.

"Are you expecting an appearance from the queen?" Hans asked, while trying to surreptitiously maneuver the offal in its paper wrapping so as to avoid staining his gloves with grease. He hadn't brought more than a couple of extra pairs, and he didn't want to have to go all the way back to his ship to get one.

"Certain of it," the vendor said with a nod and a grin. "It's tradition."

That was a perfect segue for Hans. "I'm a visitor, as you might be able to tell. So I may be misunderstanding the situation, but it appears to me that Queen Elsa is something of a _break_ from tradition."

"Yes, that's true." Another nod, a knowing look. "But even though something changed in there, several years back, doesn't mean it has to stay changed forever. Right? I was talking to my wife the other day, and I said to her, I said, 'This new queen, Queen Elsa, she's a whole new start'. Because she doesn't have to do everything the same, and she might even do things better. If she's the sweet girl everyone used to see, she'll follow the good traditions, and make a few of her own."

It was a rather incoherent ramble, Hans thought, so he picked out the fragment he wished to follow. "So everyone used to see her – Queen Elsa? As a child?"

The vendor scratched his beard – right over his food, making Hans still less inclined to actually eat what he had bought. "Well... occasionally. I myself saw her at the festival after she was born. But even before they closed the place, it wasn't common they came out – Queen Elsa or her sister. I always heard it was because the mother was a little peculiar. She was a foreigner, you know. No offense intended."

"None taken." And it was true – he didn't care where the former queen was from or about any strange ideas she might have had; she wasn't from the Southern Isles. "But I don't suppose you know why they ultimately closed the castle up entirely?"

He expected more outlandish rumors, but the vendor shook his head. "All those stories, but I don't believe none of them. I don't know what happened up there, but I believe they're good people, good rulers, who did what they had to do, even if I don't know why."

Though his questions remained, Hans had obtained some valuable information – at least some of the common people of Arendelle, regardless of the years of secrecy, were still very loyal to Queen Elsa and her family. They did not feel like the isolation had left them worse off, and they had hope that things might improve under the new queen even though they knew almost nothing about her. It gave him much to ponder.

Few others proved as willing to talk to a stranger, but he received a few tidbits of information that might be useful as clues: some people were rather suspicious of a female monarch ruling alone, and were concerned about a possible heir from a distant (foreign – that word again) branch of the family if neither sister married; a few seemed almost certain this would come to pass. There was also a jumbled, fragmentary notion about a prophecy and trolls. Total nonsense, Hans knew, but that could still lead to ill-advised decisions from those who did believe it, past, present, or future. He found out that Queen Elsa had been over-protected and over-coddled as an infant, wrapped up from head to toe even at the height of summer, and that she had not been officially declared heir until she was 16, about four years later than was customary.

It was all very curious, giving Hans a tough little puzzle to work on as he made his way, finally, to the festivities in the castle. But he felt no closer to a solution, because none of it seemed to fit together unless there was something wrong with Queen Elsa. But she had looked whole and healthy, if understandably nervous, at the coronation. And if it was a problem complex enough to keep her locked away for so long, or a serious mental malady, how could it not also mean she might be incapable of ruling? If the problem was admitted, Princess Anna could have been declared heir – and a few hard years of etiquette and comportment training would have smoothed her rough edges. But this had not been done, so Hans' speculation went right back around to the beginning.

He generally enjoyed puzzles, but puzzles required solutions. And he was coming up with none. He reached the ballroom, made appropriate small talk, and watched the royal sisters as much as he was able. They appeared to be conversing happily, much more relaxed than they had been at the coronation. At one point, it even looked as if they were laughing.

Perhaps he had gotten the wrong impression from their body language at the ceremony, which might have been merely the result of nerves – it would be no surprise at all if Queen Elsa and Princess Anna, growing up in extreme isolation, were exceedingly close, friends as much as sisters. And Princess Anna, certainly, was amusing; her rambling, half-coherent monologues were maybe helping the new queen to relax for the first time all day. They could well have a relationship very much to be envied by those who desired but had never experienced such encompassing familiarity.

But then Princess Anna disappeared. He missed the moment when it happened, trying to escape vapid conversation with Lady Something-or-Other, but the next time he looked towards the dais, she was gone. The barely-contained fear seemed to have returned to the queen, those eyes giving away everything her poise would not. But he made himself look away from her, despite the temptation of watching for clues – Princess Anna might have come down into the ballroom. He could speak to her again.

Maybe find a way to ask a few subtle questions.

But she was not obviously on the dance floor, at the food, or sitting in one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs against the walls. Hans knew he could not just wander the castle until he found her, but there were several small retiring rooms opening off the ballroom, and though they were dark and silent, the doors were open, and so he checked them. Just in case.

In the one closest to the main doors – the only one with a window to the outside world – he saw no one, but one of the curtains appeared to be sniffling.

Hans took a slight risk: "Princess Anna?"

The curtain jerked, rustled, gave a much larger sniff, and a face appeared in the folds. She wasn't crying yet – that was good, he didn't have any real experience in handling girls who were crying – but she looked very close to it. She, or someone, had fixed her hair, but one of the straps on her dress had fallen too low on her skinny little arm. In an uncharitable moment, he wondered how much effort had gone into making her look even this presentable, and found himself considering her contrast with the queen.

Then he saw her eyes widen and her surprised half-smile, and all such thoughts were abandoned. "Prince Hans," she said, her voice still thick.

"Just Hans is fine," he said, and her smile grew. "I saw you had left the queen. I wanted to make sure everything was alright."

Her smile softened again, and she looked away from him, through the window and out over the fjord, where a full moon was rising. "I think so," she said. "I mean... Elsa's a little tense, I guess, but who wouldn't be? And I got upset, but it's not the first time, you know? Or maybe you don't know. But I should be more understanding. Of her. Of Elsa."

"And what of _her_ understanding of _you_?"

It seemed to have been the perfect thing to say. Her face turned back to his and her eyes widened almost comically – like her sister, everything she felt was mirrored in those eyes. Now, it was abject shock, and he suspected he had just stumbled onto voicing something she had felt for years but never dared to say.

The dynamics of the royal family of Arendelle just grew more and more complex – and more fascinating.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Hans asked. "I could use some fresh air."

"Fresh air would be wonderful," Princess Anna said, and finally unwrapped herself from the curtains.

He offered her his arm and was pleased when she took it, though she fumbled for a moment with where to place her hand. She allowed him to lead her back through the ballroom, negotiating crowds who mostly ignored both of them – a spare prince and the new heir not as interesting as the new queen, apparently. Hans did take one glance back at Queen Elsa, but she was speaking to someone, mostly turned away. Princess Anna glanced back several times, and she was biting her lip, but she said nothing.

Outside, the air was cooler after the sun had set, the night bright with lanterns and bonfires and the enormous full moon. Princess Anna was looking around at it all with almost childlike wonder, earlier upset apparently that quickly forgotten. "I haven't been outside at night since I don't know when," she said.

"I'm honored to get to experience it with you," Hans said.

She smiled up at him, and almost tripped over her own feet, clutching his arm to regain her balance. "Sorry."

He chuckled, to ease her embarrassment. "Don't be." Then, in the temporary intimacy of the moment, he took a gamble: "It's a shame to think of all the beautiful evenings you must have missed. Why was the castle closed off for so long?"

"Honest answer?" she asked, and he nodded. "I don't actually know! I was only four or maybe just turned five, when everything happened – most of the staff left, the gates were locked, Elsa turned into a total recluse. No one ever told me anything." She shrugged, rueful. "I was hoping Elsa might tell me before today, explain everything, _finally_, but I still hardly ever see her, much less get to ask her any questions. I'm really worried about her, sometimes."

"You said she's been reclusive for a long time?"

"A _really_ long time. We were best friends, did everything together, and then... she just shut me out. And I never knew why."

"Do you believe she's capable of ruling?"

Presented to a more savvy individual, it might have been a dangerous thing to say – nearly questioning the new queen's capacity. But Princess Anna appeared to find nothing untoward about it, answering as honestly as she had everything else. "Of course! Elsa will be a wonderful queen, once she's used to it. She's really, really smart and everyone says she's a natural at diplomacy. Did you see her tonight? She looked just like a queen should. I mean, I know there's more to ruling than that, but I know Elsa – she was born for this."

Hans mentally questioned Princess Anna knowing with any certainty that her sister would make a good queen, if she had truly been isolated from her for as much of her life as she claimed. But he said nothing, of course; he didn't yet know the princess well enough for that.

And besides, he didn't want to risk angering her – not when she was openly and without question providing him with so much information. Years and years of attempting to prise answers from the king and queen, then from their eldest daughter, and all they needed to do was ask the overlooked youngest! Fortunately for his own prospects, he knew personally of a similar situation, and would not make the same mistake.

"She did look quite capable," he said.

They walked in silence for a time, across the stone causeway that led to the mainland, away now from the revelry and celebrations around the castle. Princess Anna was trying to look at everything, so he was free to look at her. She was really quite attractive – awkward now, but she would likely learn to control that, or at least use it to her advantage. It seemed likely she wasn't even aware of it, knowing no one outside the castle, and would be eager to attain greater poise when she realized. She had a lovely face, and he had always had a soft spot for red hair.

Then the light from the moon caught her at just the right angle, and he noticed for the first time the streak of pure white against the red, paler even than the queen's hair. "What's this?" he asked, and pulled away from her hand to reach up and touch it – very gently.

Her hand followed his, as if by instinct. "I was born with it." Then she laughed and added, "Though I dreamed once I was kissed by a troll."

He laughed too. "I like it." When her hand returned to her side, rather than offering her his arm again, he reached out and entwined her fingers with his own. She allowed it. More than that – she tightened her grip, and smiled at him. It was all almost too easy, too natural.

"So what did you do, all those years on your own?" he asked.

"Anything I could think of! If I'd had a hidden talent, it would be beyond perfected by now. But... I never really found anything like that. Obviously. Except maybe tripping over things. I'm _really_ good at tripping over things." She giggled, but it sounded rather forced. "What about you? Wonderful, normal childhood?"

His laugh echoed hers, equally forced. "Well, I wasn't locked in a castle, but it could have been better. I have 12 older brothers."

She stopped walking, stared at him. "_Twelve_? Honestly?"

"Honestly. Youngest, just like you. Three of them pretended I was invisible for – literally – two years."

"That's horrible."

He shrugged, gave her a gentle tug to get her moving again. "It's what brothers do."

"And sisters," Princess Anna said – and for the first time, he heard a trace of bitterness in her voice.

They were walking through the city now; despite the relatively early hour, it was dark and quiet and almost deserted. Hans briefly considered leading her back towards his ship, but there would be people there, his guards and servants and sailors, and he was rather enjoying being alone with the intriguing Princess Anna. So instead, he led her deeper into the city, moving vaguely northwards towards the heavily wooded hills. She never questions their direction, their distance from the castle, being alone with a man she had met only hours before. He had gained her trust that quickly.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, "You know, it's really strange, but I feel like I could tell you anything. Is that really weird?"

He squeezed her hand, smiled at her, and she smiled back – she was blushing, he could see it even in the dim light. "Not at all! I was just thinking the same thing."

"Really?"

"Swear it." This time, she did the hand-squeezing. "I've never met anyone like you, Princess Anna."

Her whole face lit up again. "Anna," she said. "Just Anna."

"Anna."

She was so wonderfully easy to please.

"So what do you plan to do now that the castle is open again?" he asked.

She made a face. "Go back into hiding, if Elsa gets her way. The gates close again tomorrow."

This was entirely new information. He had known the coronation celebrations would only last a day, but no one had mentioned everything being locked up again. "She's really going to do that to you?" What he really wanted to ask, again, was about Queen Elsa's actual ability to rule. Had no one told her of the damage done to diplomatic relations by her parents' actions, or did she not understand the potential for further alienation, even danger? There were many who might see it as their duty to save Arendelle from a second generation unfit ruler – by violence, if necessary.

"That's what she said." Anna gave another rueful sigh. "Not to me, of course. But that's what's going to happen." The tinge of bitterness had returned.

"Are you just going to go back inside, let it all go back to the way it was?"

"What choice do I have?"

They were out of the city now, the road sloping gently upwards into the hills, and it was too dark to see the expression on her face, but there was no doubting the tone of voice. She was beyond bitterness now. She was angry. She was beholden to her sister, to her power as queen, and as much as she might love her, she was also aware of how deeply she was trapped. And she was not happy at the prospect of remaining that way, perhaps forever.

Hans smiled – for himself alone, knowing she couldn't see him – and took the final plunge. He had made his decision several minutes before, but now it was time. He couldn't have planned it so perfectly if he had tried. He stopped walking, took her other hand so he held both of hers and she was turned to face him. "What if I know of a way for you to remain out? To never have to be locked in again?"

"What?" Cautiously optimistic. "How?"

He went to one knee, gracefully and without letting go of her hands. He heard her breath catch.

"Princess Anna of Arendelle... Will you marry me?"


	12. Chapter 10

**It's a two-for-one day here - I'm celebrating the fact that a certain someone (without saying a word beforehand) woke up at 3AM to buy both new limited edition Anna and Elsa dolls from the Disney Store for me (see, this is why I put up with you and all your harassment). So I thought I would share the party with everyone! Though really, ending with such a bang might not be quite what Elsa had in mind when she agreed to the whole thing...**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

If there was a really pleasant way to punch someone in the stomach, Anna was fairly sure the sensation would be similar to what she was currently feeling. She wasn't sure she remembered how to breathe. Or move. Or speak.

_That_ was a first.

She also felt fuzzy, muddled, dizzy, but she'd been feeling that for most of this strange day, and even more so since Hans had found her and asked her to walk with him. His hand finding hers, his eyes, his smile – she felt alluring, provocative, _interesting_. He had asked so many questions that went right to the heart of who she was, probing for all the things no one else ever even noticed, much less cared to find out more about. He wanted to know – of that, she was certain.

And she discovered how desperately she wanted someone to want to know, someone who was on her side and understood. She had longed for years for a friend to talk to, but she had never realized she had secrets as much as Elsa, because she'd been given no other choice. As they got further from the castle – the heart of those secrets – and the more he drew out of her, the more intoxicated by freedom she felt. It was hard to make herself not pour out everything at once, to give him time to get a word in. She was concentrating so hard on keeping her answers brief that she hardly noticed their leaving the cobblestone street of the city for a dirt path into the woods, or how dark it was under the trees.

Now, as he knelt before her, she was glad for the darkness – he might not see her gaping like a fish as she tried to process whether he had actually just said what she thought he had. His hands still held hers, squeezing gently, and his face was tilted up to look at her; the faint light gave his green eyes gleaming flecks of gold, but the rest of his expression was lost in the shadows.

"I know it's a crazy thing to ask," he finally said softly. "And I will understand completely if you say no, or if I've frightened you. I've just never met anyone like you."

"No, no, no... I mean, no, you didn't frighten me, not no, I don't want to. I don't know. What I want, I mean. No, wait, I don't mean I don't want you, but..." She made herself stop. Swallowed, tried to focus her mind. Tried again: "It _is_ a little crazy, but I may say something even crazier."

She lowered herself to her knees before him, not caring about getting mud on her dress or anyone seeing them or most of all – she told herself – about what Elsa would say. It was her turn to squeeze his hands. Their faces were so close, she could have kissed him.

"Yes," she said – firmly, resolutely. "Yes, Prince Hans of the Southern Isles."

She couldn't see his face in the darkness, but her mind already had it memorized. Her rescuer, her beautiful, gallant prince, who would keep her freedom, never allow the gates to close on her again. She threw her arms around him, buried her face against his neck.

After a brief hesitation, he hugged her back – her first hug since her parents had left on their final journey. It was just like those hugs, she told herself, warm and loving. She had someone again who loved her, understood her. She wasn't alone anymore.

"How quickly can we do it?" Anna asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

He laughed, very softly; she could feel it as much as she heard it. "Planning a wedding is a rather lengthy, onerous process, or so my brothers would have me believe. But a marriage – that's a little simpler, from a legal standpoint. Is that what you mean?"

She had never considered that there might be a difference between the two, a marriage and a wedding. "I guess so."

He pulled away, his hands on her shoulders – his fingers were so warm on her bare skin. "All marriage requires is witnessed vows and... and consummation."

"Consummation." It wasn't a question, though she almost wanted it to be. She could feel herself blushing again. The concept was not unfamiliar to her, but she had gotten the feeling – primarily from books – that there was more to it than her vague notions of sharing a bed. But she knew enough to realize this probably wasn't the time to ask him. Even if she was curious enough to want to.

"When you're ready," he said. "Only when you're ready. We have all the time in the world."

"No," Anna said. "Elsa's closing the gates tomorrow. She could keep us apart. She's the _queen_." She heard the bitterness return to her voice, and knew it wasn't entirely fair – Elsa had never said a word to Anna about marriage, she might be fully supportive. But Anna could not know for sure, and that was frustrating – all the things she still didn't know and might never know were frustrating, but especially this, tonight. "Tonight, it has to be tonight. Right now – we could say the vows right now!"

"Anna..."

She didn't let him finish, because she couldn't stand to be told "no" again. Her whole life had been "no." "But we could! I know, you said we need witnesses, but we can witness for each other. That's all I need. We can say them again later for everyone, at the wedding, if it's that important. But for tonight – please. _Please_, Hans." She knew she sounded like a child, pleading, but she didn't know what else to do – she was desperate now, desperate to cling to the possibility of freedom. If they waited, he might change his mind, realize he was perfect and she was awkward and peculiar and talked too much and tripped over her own feet as often as she managed to walk across a room.

She couldn't go back to being alone in the castle. Another lifetime of that – she couldn't face it. She would throw herself off the roof first. Elsa could lock herself away forever, rot in her miserable isolation, but Anna wanted today: parties, dancing, visitors.

The love of her life.

Hans was silent for a long time – then he laughed. But it was a gentle laugh, reassuring, and his thumbs rubbed little circles on her shoulders. "I should have guessed you'd want this as much as I do. We could be the same person." He stood up, pulled her up beside him. "Let's go where I can see you. Then yes – let's make our vows!"

Her heart swelled. This time, she took his hand, tugging him back in the direction from which they'd come. "I know the perfect place."

They ran, hand-in-hand, heedless of the dark and their formal attire and the spectacle they were making. Anna laughed, giddy and exuberant, as happy as she could ever remember being. She felt wild and free and limitless. She leapt an uneven stone on the causeway, confident he would catch her if she fell, but she didn't, she didn't even trip, because the night was magical and perfect and nothing, even her own clumsiness, would dare to spoil it.

She saw people smiling at them, pointing them out as they hurried across the square towards the castle. She imagined what they saw – two young people, head-over-heels in love, perfect in their togetherness, their completeness. People actually stopped what they were doing to watch; their happiness, Hans and Anna's, was contagious, catching everyone they passed.

She decided then and there that they would have the wedding here, in public, open for all Arendelle to attend. No more hiding. Everyone could celebrate with her – with them.

"Where are we going?" Hans finally asked, as she pulled him through the doors and into the castle. She turned away from the direction of the ballroom; they went upstairs instead.

She looked back to smile at him, hoping it looked mysterious. "You'll find out soon enough. C'mon!" And they ran again, up the staircases, through the attics, out to the balcony overlooking Arendelle and the fjord. The moon was huge and looked almost close enough to touch, shining brighter than any of the twinkling lights from the celebrations below. Ships bobbed in the harbor, dancers – tiny and indistinct – circled in the square, and the raucous cries of revelers echoed like song.

It took Anna and Hans several minutes to catch their breath, leaning on the railing and on one another. Her chest hurt – she couldn't remember the last time she'd run so far, or when it had felt so good; even the pain was delicious, part of this wonderful night. Hans was able to stand straight first, holding her upper arms, supporting her. She was bent almost double and her face was probably nearly purple – terribly attractive. But he didn't seem to mind.

"This is perfect," he said when she was finally able to stand on her own. "It's beautiful."

"Elsa and I used to sneak up here at night," Anna said. "When we were little. There was one time we came up in the middle of a snowstorm – it was amazing. Until Elsa teased me, pretending the door was locked." She laughed. "She didn't pull pranks very often, but she was good at it when she did, and I _always_ fell for it."

"You love her that much, despite everything she's done. You have an amazing heart, Anna."

She smiled, looking out over Arendelle, remembering the snow and how they had laughed. She had cried too, when Elsa teased, but then Elsa had opened the door and hugged her and it was all okay again. Like magic. "She's my sister," Anna said.

For a moment, just a moment, she felt a flash of something like guilt. She knew she was up here, at least a little bit, because of Elsa: because of being shut out of her sister's life, because Elsa was queen and she was no one special, because she could do this and, tonight at least, Elsa could not.

She tamped the feeling down, tried to shake it away entirely, but something must have showed on her face, because Hans put his hand on her arm and said, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." She put her hand over his. "Just thinking about Elsa. She was the one I always dreamed would marry the handsome, dashing foreign prince, and I'd end up with some merchant who had to be paid to take me."

"Well, if you'd rather hold off for him..."

And just like that, he made her laugh, and everything was better. "I'm terrible at arithmetic. I could never be a merchant's wife."

"You would be wasted in an arranged marriage of any sort."

"Elsa might disagree."

She had intended it humorously, but Hans, after a pause, said, "Are you certain you don't want to ask her – before any vows are said?"

Again, she marveled at how quickly he could divine the thoughts and fears she had believed to be hers alone. Was this a general talent, or a sign of their compatibility? She liked the latter possibility.

"No," she said quickly. "I don't want to wait. I've spent my whole life waiting."

She looked at him, suddenly vulnerable, anticipating. He took her hands again, held them. His eyes never left hers – and his were such a deep, beautiful green, and so warm, and so understanding. She could not remember afterward the precise words they spoke, or all the promises they made; she knew only the words from stories, but he had seen vows given by his own family, and he took the lead now. She repeated and replied as best she could, emboldened by the way he looked at her and the reassuring squeezes he gave her hands.

The words were forgotten, but the meaning was what was truly important – just as they needed no witnesses, they needed no written record of what was spoken to know that it was true. The world might not think it was enough, but it was for Anna. She felt so dizzy and ebullient it was almost like euphoria. Anybody who saw her, she thought, would probably think she was drunk – and let them! She was free. She was with Hans.

And there was nothing anyone could do to take him away from her.

* * *

Elsa finally left the dais, hoping walking around would ease some of the tension building to breaking point behind her eyes. If a day was this bad, how miserable for everyone were celebrations that went on for a week or more? Maybe this was the reason wine flowed so freely at such things. But Elsa rarely drank, and when she did imbibed very controlled amounts – because if there was any situation in which she knew people were likely to give free rein to their emotions, it was when intoxicated.

She did wish by now for something, anything, to help her relax. People approached her, oblivious to her discomfort. She was beginning to feel like a performing animal, being applauded for doing the same little tricks again and again and again. There seemed to be no variation to the script – introduction, courtesies, well-wishes, staring as if hoping to see her third eye, tentative attempts to introduce their real motivation for approaching in the first place. And then she had to smile and promise to consider whatever they had said, no matter how nonsensical, rather than rolling her eyes and sighing. She was also fairly certain she had spoken to some of the same people, about the same topics, two or three times. How many people could one ballroom possibly hold?

Enough to make the room uncomfortably warm – she was now very much regretting the cloak and her hands were sweating inside her gloves. And she would just have to suffer through it, though she was briefly privately amused to wonder what people would do if the queen started shedding clothing.

She didn't see Anna again, even as she noticed all those other people what seemed an unusual number of times. She must have left. Elsa was envious. She could leave too, of course – and potentially leave a diplomatic disaster in her wake.

It was going to be a long 60-odd years.

"Queen Elsa, may I present the Baron Something of Somewhere."

"Queen Elsa, may I remind you of your family's long relationship with the Land of Something..."

"Queen Elsa, I have been long hoping to speak to you about..."

_Queen Elsa your majesty your highness madame my queen_... There were several words Elsa suspected might now forever induce a sharp internal cringe each time she heard them. Did anyone really expect her to negotiate complex social and political alliances, right here in the ballroom on her coronation day? She knew deferral, but this assault from all sides was making it difficult, especially in tandem with the heat and her pounding headache.

She very much envied Anna – wherever she was, it had to be better than here.

The dancing had mostly been abandoned though the music played on, and the ballroom had been given over to conversation and eating and surreptitiously cadging additional glasses of wine from passing, passive-faced servants. Her guests were finally tiring. But the whole of the evening was planned to the minute – few would leave before Elsa did, Elsa could leave if she wanted to but feared the repercussions of doing so, and somewhere, her master of ceremonies was watching the time. Only when he gave the word would everyone leave – some gratefully for beds, others to join the wilder, unscripted celebrations outside. Elsa was looking forward to the former. And considering remaining there for several weeks.

She was trying to work her way through the crowd back to the dais – making herself easier to find to call an end to all this nonsense – when she heard someone calling her name. And not appended by "queen" or any other title: merely Elsa.

She turned back towards the entrance, startled – and there was Anna. Of course. She was clumsily making her way across the room, moving much too fast for the number of people and likely stepping on more than a few toes. She had someone with her, a young man Elsa could not remember seeing before (not that that meant much, tonight). But he and Anna were holding hands, Anna's face was bright red and giddy-looking, and something about their eager movement and Anna's expression sent a feeling of uncomfortable disquiet slithering down through Elsa.

Quickly, she tamped it down. No feeling.

"Elsa!" Anna called again – much too loudly, especially as it already appeared that half the room was watching her. Those close to Elsa had stepped back, clearing a space for her visitor, who they must have figured out could only be the sister.

Anna finally spotted her, pulled her companion that way. Elsa tried to size him up without obviously doing so in the seconds afforded before they reached her: fashionable, well-tailored clothes; carefully done hair, including a faintly ridiculous pair of sideburns; a nice enough face, though from his rather condescending smiles to those Anna almost ran over, Elsa got the feeling he was aware of how handsome he was – and knew how to take advantage of it.

"Elsa," Anna said again, almost breathless, reaching the cleared circle where Elsa waited. "I mean, uh – your majesty." She bobbed her head, unable, apparently, to release the young man's hand long enough to curtsey.

He, however, pulled away from Anna in order to give a deep, formal bow. "Your majesty," he said, his face still directed to the floor, his manners impeccable.

Elsa stared at him for a moment, then realized he wasn't going to come back up. "Rise," she said, feeling rather ridiculous, particularly knowing how many people were still watching them.

"Oh, yeah," Anna said, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. Do I do that, too?"

"Not with me," Elsa said – softly, hoping the crowd was far enough away not to overhear. "We'll talk about it later." She made a mental note to arrange further lessons in comportment for Anna. After a pause – while Anna looked up at her companion and he looked pointedly from her to Elsa – Elsa finally coaxed with, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"Oh!" Anna said, but it was the young man who bowed again and said, "Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, your majesty, as it please you."

What pleased her was that he came out of the bow this time before she had to order it. Less pleasing was what Anna chose to do, in full view of a room filled with people who had already seen her come running in holding his hand: she wrapped both her arms around one of his and leaned her head on his shoulder. He had the good sense to look rather startled.

"Anna, what is going on?" Elsa asked. It came out both louder and sharper-toned than she had intended.

"Nothing!" Anna said quickly, then changed her mind: "I mean, not nothing, definitely not _nothing_, but nothing bad, if you thought there was something wrong. Which there's not. At all."

Prince Hans cleared his throat. "Actually, your majesty, we came to seek your blessing of-"

Anna cut him off, unable to contain herself. "-Our marriage!"

Elsa stared at her. For a strange moment, she was absolutely certain Anna was going to burst out laughing and reveal the punchline of this bizarre attempt at humor. But she just looked back, grinning from ear to ear. She still had a very possessive clutch on Prince Hans' arm.

"I'm confused," Elsa said, when it had become clear that they were waiting for a response. "I don't understand what you're asking me."

She couldn't hide the irritation in her voice – she was too aware of the people standing closest to them, watching and taking in every word. It didn't matter that only those nearby could hear what was being said; she could already hear the whispers susurrating around the ballroom. Anna appeared oblivious, and Elsa had to suppress the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Her Prince Hans, too – though he was clearly more decorous and he glanced in the direction of some of the whispers, looking rather pained, he still had not pulled his arm from Anna's grip. For Elsa, at that moment, existing in bafflement and consternation in roughly equal measure, his behavior made him complicit.

"Hans and I would like your blessing, as queen, of our marriage," Anna said, then gazed up at Prince Hans, doe-eyed. "We've already said our vows."

"You did _what_?" Elsa's control was dangerously close to slipping. She forced the anger back, refused its presence. Deep breath, then: "Anna, I need to speak with you."

"Your majesty, we only spoke them to one another," Prince Hans put in. "We have no binding contract without your blessing, only our commitment to one another."

She ignored him. It was Anna she had to deal with, would always have to deal with. "I need to speak to you _alone_."

But Anna's face took on a cast she had once known well, stubborn and defiant. "Anything you have to say to me, you can say to both of us."

"Fine. You can't marry a man you just met."

Anna looked completely, utterly shocked and confused. It didn't seem possible anyone could be that naïve – certainly not a young woman claiming she'd already made marriage vows. But her surprise and hurt looked genuine, and she clearly saw no problem in hanging off the arm of a complete stranger – a _male_ complete stranger – in public.

Nor any reason to keep her voice down. "Why _not_?" The shock had given way to anger, and again Elsa was struck with a memory of the child she had once been, left with fury when confusion and impotent ignorance had for too long been her constant companions. "Since when do you care _what_ I do? Since when have you cared about me _at all_?"

Elsa recoiled as if slapped. She could feel her last vestiges of control sliding away, slippery as the silk of her gloves. She could not remember Anna ever directing this kind of anger at her – at their parents, but never at her. But she knew she deserved it, deserved it more than Anna could possibly know.

The part of her that was a sister wanted to let Anna scream at her, scream until all those years of isolation and loneliness had been dealt with, scream until it was all better, no matter how long that might take. But the part of Elsa that was now a queen could not be put away – never again would she be able to put that away. And that part was unable to ignore the public setting, the whispers still flitting around the crowd, the craning faces eager for a glimpse of this familial tiff.

That part of Elsa was able to ignore the virulent emotions struggling for control and keep the tremble out of her voice – just. "Anna, I think we need to discuss this _somewhere else_. Prince Hans, it might be best if you left."

The aforesaid Prince Hans was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Elsa wondered momentarily what Anna might have told him about her. "Yes, your majesty."

But Anna was too angry, apparently, for reason, and she didn't let go of Prince Hans' arm. "No. We're not going anywhere. I'm not going to hide anymore!"

"Anna, I'm not suggesting-"

"Yes, you are! I know you are! You can stay here and hide forever, I don't _care_ anymore, but I want to marry Hans, and I won't let you stop it, I won't let you keep me here – I _love_ him!"

"Anna, what do you know about love?"

Now it was Anna's turn to pull back, as suddenly as if Elsa had struck her. Her face twisted, anger and betrayal writ clearly across it. "More than _you_," she spat. "All you know how to do is shut people out!"

The queen part of Elsa shrank to nothing, something deeper and more desperate rising, begging for her to stop, please stop, before either of them said something she wouldn't later be able to take back. She was going to lose control. She had to get out of the ballroom. _Now_.

She spun towards the door, walking stiffly to suppress the urge to run, only too aware of all the eyes following her and how hard her heart was pounding and how much her hands were trembling. The gloves might not be enough this time. In front of all these people. They could be hurt. She might hurt them.

Hurt Anna.

She didn't see the master of ceremonies, but there were guards near the door – good enough. "The party is over," she said, and found she no longer cared who heard. "Escort our guests out, and close the gates." She never stopped, never even slowed down.

Until someone tried to grab her hand, and she heard Anna's voice – the anger was gone; she sounded almost afraid: "Elsa, no! Wait!" She fumbled, because Elsa was trying to pull away, and Anna seemed determined to get hold of her. Elsa jerked.

She felt the silk slip away from her fingers.

Instantly, instinctively, protectively, she drew her hand to her chest, tucked it under her arm. The air felt cool on her bare skin – or was she already making the temperature drop?

That was the moment when true panic set in.

Anna was shouting again, but her tone was very different – desperate, pleading. "Elsa, wait, _please_, I can't live like this anymore!"

And Elsa spun on her, no longer able to suppress her anger, terror, vulnerability. "Then _leave_."

She was closer to Anna than she had been for the better part of a lifetime, so close they could have hugged one another. Elsa could see every freckle on Anna's face, every hair that had escaped from her comb, the stitching on the limp blue glove in her hand. She could see the betrayal in those blue eyes, so very like Elsa's own.

"What did I ever do to you?" Anna asked – and there was so much confused hurt in her voice that Elsa thought her own heart might burst. She could feel ice beneath her feet, the cold breeze rustling up around her.

She had to get out. Everyone would notice soon. "We'll talk about it later," she said, and they would, they would talk about everything, no more secrets, it was time, but right now, she had to _go_. She turned from Anna, hunched over her bare hand, moving as quickly as she dared, almost running now.

"Elsa-"

"Enough, Anna." Speaking through gritted teeth. She was almost to the door – she could see the grain of the wood, the scuffed place where it had rubbed against the floor.

"No, Elsa, just wait-"

She snapped around. "I said, _enough_!"

The gesture was unthinking – a furious wave of her hand, a dismissal. But it was the wrong hand. The same hand she had stretched desperately towards Anna all those years ago, frantic to catch her. It was out, and Elsa was overwhelmed and angry and most of all afraid, so afraid.

Her bare hand.

The jagged shards crystallized out of the air itself, ice at its sharpest, deadliest: they rose with a cracking like an artillery from the floor, the noise echoing and reverberating through the cavernous room. They encircled Elsa, trapping her against the door, caging her in.

Like the monster she was.


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

By the time Elsa actually forbade the marriage, Anna was feeling almost as irritated with Hans as she was with her sister. Why was he just standing there, leaving her to deal with Elsa's inexplicable behavior? She was so frustrated she almost let go of his arm. Really, the only reason she didn't was because Elsa's self-satisfied, smug expression was begging to be slapped, and she wasn't sure she would be able to resist the temptation. For Anna, everything about the whole day had been perfect – except the two times she had tried to talk to Elsa.

Elsa, who was standing there so calm, like she didn't actually care about Anna in the least except to be able to control her – today, tomorrow, every day for the rest of her life. And Anna couldn't continue that way, the very thought of being locked in again, locked in forever, terrified her. She knew she had to make Elsa believe that, and believe that her love for Hans was the key to her freedom, Elsa never had to leave, only Anna would go. But in the face of Elsa's cold rebuttal, Anna felt like a petulant child, and about as capable as one of formulating a coherent argument.

So she let herself get angry instead – an anger that had built up over a lifetime, the most justifiable, hot anger she thought she'd ever felt. But Elsa seemed to be incapable of reacting, her expression unchanging even when Anna was practically screaming at her, and that made Anna even angrier. She let out whatever came to mind, wanting to verbally pummel her sister when her fists could not, to break down that regal shield and force her to feel something, _anything_.

But it was Anna who broke first. Because when Elsa suddenly turned to stalk out, calling orders to close the gates, Anna saw how her hands were shaking. She was feeling something after all, and clearly nothing good.

And Anna remembered suddenly her father, a day she had been playing on the rug in front of his desk while he worked: his head in his hands, exhausted, all but falling asleep over an endless stack of papers. Then Per came in to announce a visitor, and Anna saw her father rise and transform: his shoulders higher, back straight, eyes alert.

He winked at Anna, watching him. "Time to be the king."

And now, was that what Elsa was doing, being the queen, playing her expected role while Anna acted like a spoiled brat denied extra dessert? It suddenly seemed very likely. So Anna pulled away from Hans, and tried to go to Elsa.

And, she told herself when trying to piece it all together in her mind afterward, her intention had been to apologize, to take the offer to go speak somewhere privately. That was why she tried to grab Elsa's hand. Why she tried to hold on – because she needed Elsa to know that now she understood. Not all of it, that would hopefully come later, but at least some, the important parts.

When Elsa's glove came off, Anna saw her whole demeanor change, just like that, like their father's transformation in reverse. Her shoulders fell, her back hunched, she drew the arm with her bare hand up to her chest as if defending it from hurt. She had finally stopped, but her back was still turned, still stooped, like she was an animal fearful of being whipped.

"Elsa, wait, please," Anna begged her, "I can't live like this anymore!"

Elsa spun on her so quickly Anna almost took an involuntary step back. But Elsa's eyes were huge, haunted, and Anna made herself stay, to let Elsa see she was still there despite the harsh words between them. After, she wished she had had the presence of mind to offer Elsa her glove back, but she never thought of it.

When Elsa spoke, it was a knife through Anna's heart – words she'd longed to hear for so long, but not here, not with such venom: "Then _leave_." Finally, there was emotion in her voice. Finally, something had gotten through to her.

Anna could only stare at her, shocked to silence, hardly daring to breathe. It was so hard to think, her head thick and overheated. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly?

Was it all her fault?

"What did I ever do to you?" she asked, even as she was terrified of whatever Elsa might tell her. Elsa was still staring at her, still hunched and defenseless, still there – until something made her start, almost jump, and the strange look of panic took on new dimensions; she was clearly terrified.

"We'll talk about it later," she said quickly, and turned to leave again. To go back to her room, Anna was sure, and the lock would turn, and Anna would be shut out – again. Like today had never happened, like they had never laughed over the smell of chocolate or exchanged happy smiles over a job well done in the chapel. They would return to swift, impersonal words, short glances as they passed one another in the corridors.

But Elsa looked so frightened – did she think Anna had never heard her crying? She was quiet, but the walls were old and thin. And though it had been many years since then, whatever scared Elsa – whatever had led her to her room – had not left her. Anna couldn't leave her that way, not again. She had left Elsa to her own loneliness for far too long, worried only about herself and what _she_ wanted, oblivious and selfish.

So she tried again to call Elsa back. And again. She had to reach her. _Had_ to.

She hardly registered the sweep of Elsa's hand, her angry dismissal, but there was no way to ignore what followed: the cracking sound, the knives of ice – at first, Anna thought the guards had drawn their swords – leaping from the floor of the ballroom, Elsa's panicked, desperate gasp. One of the shards actually brushed Anna's skirt, but she hardly felt it. All her attention was focused on -

"...Elsa?" It came out as hardly more than a whisper, but still, for a moment, Elsa's eyes met Anna's, pleading and agonized with fright. They were begging for someone to save her. But the ice wall was between them. Anna could see no way through.

The surprised murmurs around the room grew louder, a buzzing in which the occasional word stood out clearly: _sorcery_. _Evil. Witchcraft_. Anna wanted to turn and shout at them to shut up, leave Elsa alone, couldn't they see how afraid she was? But she couldn't look away from her sister.

Elsa had tucked her bare hand up again, and was fumbling desperately at the door with the other, which was still encased in that beautiful blue glove. She found the doorknob; the latch click was audible even over the crowd's volatile mutters. Then the door was open – and Elsa fled. Anna could hear her footsteps running through the entrance hall, but the sound was strange, sharp and almost hollow. Looking at where she had been standing, Anna realized why that was, because there was a thick layer of it here where Elsa had been standing: ice.

She was running across ice.

There was no time to give it any further though – Anna needed to find a way around the needled fence before her, so she could go after Elsa. But the shards were densely packed, a semicircle enclosing the doorway, and too high to climb over. Never before had Anna wished more for longer legs.

"My god," said a voice beside her. "Are you alright?"

Hans. She had forgotten all about him. He stood behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders, and she realized for the first time that she was shivering – the room had turned frigid. "I'm fine," she said, her voice distant and vague with confusion and shock. "But I have to go after her." A moment, then the daze finally began to lift, determination taking its place, and she spoke more strongly: "I have to find her."

"Anna... I'm not sure I can let you do that," Hans said.

Anna ignored the implication – there was no way she was going to stay here, not after seeing the look on Elsa's face just before she ran. "Can you lift me over?"

"I don't know if-"

She looked back at him, forced a smile. "Please, Hans. I need to make sure she's alright."

He hesitated, then moved his hands to her waist, and lifted her over. In another smooth motion he stepped over the shards himself. "I'm coming with you."

She nodded, and they set off as quickly as they dared – the floor was slick with ice.

* * *

Elsa ran. She could feel the ice under her feet, spreading past her and across the entrance hall, inexorable. It didn't matter, because they had all seen what she did. Everyone had seen. Everyone knew.

She was in an anxious panic, gasping for breath, comprehension all but lost – but some instinct for self preservation told her that her bedroom would not be her safe haven, not now. They would find her there and force her out, even if it took axes to get through the door. Nowhere in the castle was safe. She had to leave – had to get away before they came for her. Every noise made her flinch, certain it was the sound of pursuit.

The door, still unlocked because her guests filled the ballroom – she could go out, no one would stop her. No one in this part of the castle, if there was anyone, would know yet. Run while there was time.

But there was no one, no guard at an unlocked door when the gates outside were open. Did she still need to hire more people? She would mention it to Kai, the next time she saw him. There was also the matter of the length of the ball, and the heat – she would make a list.

She realized she had stilled, had been staring blankly at the door. What was she doing? Why couldn't she focus? She had to focus. They would get her. There were snowflakes in the air, almost still, hovering around her like a cloud. The ice under her feet was thick and solid, and frozen vapor whitened the air with her every exhalation.

She had to go. _Go_. She forced herself to move again, pulling open the heavy doors, oak crossed with iron. The handle was cold enough to burn – if she hadn't been impervious to such. She stumbled out, momentarily blinded by the darkness and almost immediately assaulted by an incomprehensible clamor of voices. It sounded like... _cheering_?

She felt like an animal caught in a trap, every hunter in the land converging on her, coming in for the kill. She cringed away from the noise, the bright dancing lights. She could hardly breathe at all now, her lungs begging for more, her head unfocused and weightless.

"Queen Elsa!" she finally made out, the words escaping from the wall of sound, and then came others:

"It _is_ her!"

"Your majesty!"

And screaming that sounded like frightened children, cries that might have been pain. Faces like leering masks, all gaping mouths and black holes for eyes, surging forward, coming for her, they knew, somehow they already _knew_, and they had kindled the bonfires to burn her, cleanse the world of her damage.

Elsa gasped and ran again. She could still feel the ice, following her. Marking her: she was the dark creature, she was the monster, she was the one they must strike down. Down the steps, trying to find a way through, but people were everywhere, closing in on her, coming from every direction with their black eyes and hungry smiles.

There was no way out.

Elsa cowered.

* * *

Anna slid on the lake of ice now covering the entire entrance hall, would have fallen if Hans had not been there to grab her arm and haul her back up.

"Where do you think she went?" he asked. His hand was still on her elbow.

Her first thought was of the bedroom, Elsa's _sanctum sanctorum_, until she saw the doors still standing open. Ice hung from the handles, sharp and slick. "Outside."

And closer, she could hear the cheering, people shouting Elsa's name – because, of course, they believed she had gone out to greet them as their new queen.

It was strange she would have gone there, but there was no time to think about it – Anna needed to get to her, get her somewhere safe and quiet, get her calmed down. Find out what was going on, and how to fix it. She bolted for the door, heedless now of the ice, because she knew from the frenzied noise outside that she was close. Hans was beside her, matching her pace until they reached the door – then he darted in front of her, getting out first.

She felt a flash of irritation, then realized he was probably just trying to protect her – from whatever might be happening, whatever she might see. But even as she could appreciate the sentiment, she didn't want protection. She wanted to get to Elsa.

She ducked around him, prepared to keep running.

* * *

Elsa was backing away, biting back a scream for help, her hands – the bare and the gloved – held up instinctively, trying to fend off attack. Closer and closer the dark figures came, stalking her, an army of mindless predators. Elsa heard a strange sort of whimpering noise, and realized it was escaping from her own air-deprived throat.

"Please," she said, forcing the words out at a desperate moan. "Stay back." But they seemed beyond hearing, beyond caring. They did not stop.

She stumbled backwards another step, another. The wind was picking up, already keening over the outer walls of the castle, and the temperature was plummeting. And they could all hear it, feel it.

It echoed through her mind, endlessly: _they know, they know, they know_.

* * *

Anna slid to a halt when she saw her, grabbing a pillar for support. The ice had to be an inch thick – and was it _snowing_?

It was July. But there was the ice inside. That wave of Elsa's hand. The terror in her eyes. Something clicked in Anna's mind – the closed doors, the reticence, the gloves; and now this naked, animal fear, the bare hand.

But that was impossible. There was no possible way...

Anna called to her sister, screamed her name, desperate to be heard over the rising gale and the cheering throng, people who appeared heedless of any danger, so fixated on the spectacle of their new queen they were oblivious to her expression, her body language.

Anna started to run for her, but Hans grabbed her arm and forced her back. She whirled, ready to fight for escape, but his eyes stopped her – he looked scared too, and terribly concerned.

"Wait for the guards," he said. "You'll never make it through."

"But-"

Then the screams began.

* * *

Finally, some of them – a few – stopped. Some were speaking and their voices sounded kind, concerned, but Elsa couldn't understand them over the roaring in her ears, or was it outside, the blizzard she had birthed? Not understanding, she could not trust, though she wanted to beg the kind voices to protect her. To not let them get her.

Because most of them were still coming.

She backed up another step, and she was trying to plead with them, beg them to stay away before they hurt her or she hurt them. But her words didn't seem to make sense either – or maybe she wasn't really speaking them at all.

The backs of her thighs bumped against something abruptly and she almost fell. Her hands flew back to catch herself, found and gripped cold, solid stone. She felt the ice squirting away beneath her fingers before she heard the crack of freezing water.

She turned to look – she couldn't help it.

The ice was spreading across the surface of the fountain, racing upwards at an impossible angle, creating a monstrous bloom of spikes and shards. A single sharp point fell away, landing just inches from a little girl with red-gold hair like Anna's. The girl gasped, shied away, then looked to Elsa, wide-eyed.

For a shocked moment, the two stared at one another. Then came a scream, and it rippled through the crowd, echoing and returning. Elsa hardly heard them – in her mind, the girl _was_ Anna, but this time it wasn't icy magic that hit her, it was the ice itself, and Elsa knew there would not be another awakening.

She could hurt, could kill. All these people, and Anna still in the castle.

Elsa broke from her dismay, her betrayal of her sister. She bolted. This time, no one tried to stop her – they stepped aside, seeking escape from her diseased body, some so abruptly they tripped, stumbling backwards and away.

Ice now coated the entirety of the square.

* * *

Anna watched the fountain harden and freeze, eyes wide, Hans' hand still holding her on the steps. It turned out to be good that he was – Elsa stumbled against someone, tried to push them aside, and more of the sharp ice blades grew up from the ground, reaching as far as the bottom of the steps up to the castle door. Anna gasped, and heard Hans do the same, but the blades came no closer.

"I want you to stay here," Hans said. "It's not safe – this is just getting worse."

She barely heard him. She spoke Elsa's name, a plaintive, disbelieving sound. She watched Elsa dart for the first point of egress – the narrow, twisting stone stairway within the outer walls, one of two that let out directly on the fjord.

Unless she had a boat there – and Anna didn't think any of this had had that level of forethought – she was going to be trapped. This was Anna's chance.

She tore away from Hans and ran, ignoring his shout after her.

* * *

Elsa tripped and stumbled, her own ragged breath echoing back to her in the twisting confines of the stairwell. She was trembling all over, so hard she almost fell more than once, her bare hand quickly scraped raw from trying to catch herself on the rough stone of the walls.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if she fell – there might be some pain, but only blessed, unfeeling darkness ever after. Except she had no guarantee it would successfully mean her death. And if it didn't, they would have her, and death might be much more prolonged and painful. Or they would keep her alive, captive, a creature in the dungeons. Alive or dead, she knew they would never allow her to go free. Never again.

She fumbled with the wooden door at the bottom of the stairs, for a heart-stopping moment sure it was locked. But it was just the boards, warped by the elements and so many years unopened, and finally they gave way, cracking like the ice above and falling away from the stone. Elsa stepped down from the stairwell, forcing herself to stillness, hugging herself against the trembling and trying to get her bearings. She stood on a tiny, rocky spit of land, the castle wall behind her and water all around her. Snow was falling so thickly now it was difficult to see the shoreline across the fjord.

She was trapped – and she could hear noise on the stairs, someone calling her name. She whirled, wide-eyed and frantic, then back around, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere. She stumbled to the edge of the land, so close the water lapped against her shoes.

It froze.

* * *

Anna ran down the stairs, but they seemed endless, twisting around and around forever. Someone was coming behind her – Hans, or maybe the guards had finally arrived and he had sent them after her. She didn't care who it was, as long as no one tried to stop her getting to Elsa.

She called Elsa's name, heard it echo back to her, but there was no response. Elsa had looked so panicked, maybe she wasn't now even capable of a response. Was that possible?

Anna didn't know, but she called out again, just in case.

She finally stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, where the door still hung open. It was much darker here, despite the moonlight, and the snow was getting blindingly thick. But she could still make out her sister's long cloak, her hunched form.

"Elsa!" She was at the water's edge, and Anna was suddenly sure she was going to jump, allow her heavy clothing to drag her down. "Elsa, _please_, wait!"

Elsa turned back. Their eyes met, and afterward, Anna was almost sure Elsa smiled at her – sweet, sad. Saying goodbye.

Then she stepped out, over the water.

Anna screamed, tried to run for her, to catch her, go into the water if need be and drag her back out. But there was ice here now too, and she slipped, fell, could not get up quickly enough.

The empty glove was still clutched in her hand.

She watched Elsa go, helpless.

* * *

Elsa looked back at her sister, just for a moment, and for that moment, her terror and panic almost dissipated. She knew what she had to do – and Anna might not understand, might never understand, but she would be safe. Arendelle would be safe. With three years to mature to it, just as Elsa had, Anna would be a good ruler – she was kind and would treat people well. There was nothing wrong with her, no taint, no abnormality. She was whole, normal. They would love her.

Elsa smiled at her. Looked one last time to memorize her, every inch of her – all the family she would ever have. Wished her, silently, happiness and peace.

Then Elsa turned away, took a deep breath, and stepped out onto the fjord. As she had hoped, it froze beneath her feet. She took another step, another – the ice was solid, thick, unyielding.

She looked across the water, past the city, to the cradle of mountains beyond. Then she began to run.


	14. Chapter 12

**This will be it for awhile, possibly until next weekend - I've caught up with myself in my notebook, and I've got a lot going on starting tomorrow. So I hope you enjoy this final entry to Part 2 - Part 3 will make an appearance as soon as I can beat it out of Hans' hide (hey, not my fault he gets the next viewpoint; he should have thought of that). Until then, more euphoric thanks - think Anna's excitement when she presents that lovely new sled to Kristoff - to all those who have read, reviewed, followed, favorited, PM'd, and generally offered more encouragement and support and appreciation than I could ever have imagined or deserved. It means the world. **

**Now, someone is being grumpy about having to wait too long his turn at the reins, so I'll turn it over to him. Kristoff, you're up. **

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Kristoff had left before the revelries really got going, though it was already clear his sales were not going to go to waste – he had seen more than one pristine block of ice hammered to chips and added to drinks that practically smoked with alcohol, and more than a few people already struggling with stranding upright. By lunchtime.

It was much more pleasant out of the city, away from the noise and the smells and the people who felt the need to have a conversation rather than just buying what they needed and moving on with their lives, a habit that always left him feeling irritable. None of the few folks he'd had around growing up – except Aina, and she was different – had been overly chatty, and it had rubbed off on Kristoff to appreciate silence.

Or maybe not silence – just natural sounds. All the quiet things city people never heard, because they were scared they'd get eaten by wild hedgehogs if they left the safety of their walls or some such nonsense. As loud as most of them talked, maybe they _would_ get eaten in the woods (though possibly not by hedgehogs).

These kinds of thoughts made Kristoff feel better after leaving Arendelle, where there were always a few nose wrinkles or side eyes or assumptions that he was too stupid to know if someone was trying to short change him, even on days like today when, in honor of someone else's occasion, he'd actually made an attempt to dress nicely and comb his hair. He enjoyed their surprise when he responded and showed that he could actually do more than grunt and scratch himself, but the whole business was needling just the same.

He bought lunch for himself and Sven in the city, spending more than he usually would, but the new heft of his bag made him feel indulgent. They went up into the woods before they stopped and ate, and he had to admit the fried stuff tasted pretty damn good in comparison to the dump-it-all-in-the-pot stews he usually got by with. Fresh bread was a nice treat too, and apparently Sven was perfectly happy with city carrots.

"Sorry yours aren't battered," Kristoff said, but Sven didn't seem to mind.

They had a nap after lunch, because it was going to be a long couple of days – Kristoff wanted to go up and get another load of ice; he had overheard people talking about festivities going on for weeks, and if that was true, he thought he could sell out again in no time. He needed to go back up and give the others their share of the proceeds anyway.

Getting up the mountains high enough to find ice in summer mean a full two days traveling, and that was if everything went right. Once he'd made it that far, it was rare there were enough blocks cut and ready to go; he usually spent a day or two helping with the harvesting, which also gave Sven a chance to get some rest. The journey back was generally three or four days, because he didn't want to push Sven too hard when he was pulling that much weight.

There were also always potential sales on the way back – the farms and remote, nameless hamlets where he could ply his trade; in return, he had a nice bunch of barns and stables where he was allowed to sleep on his trips, free and out of the elements. He was planning to head for one of those tonight, but it would be a long trip after such a late start, so the nap would help him stay alert as it got dark. Normally, he spent the night after selling in the city, but making it back in time to sell out another load was more tempting than sleeping in a bed. Besides that, prices on those beds had probably quadrupled for coronation day.

After their nap, he hooked Sven back up to the sled, checked that the wheels were secure, and walked beside him deeper into the wilderness, because he liked to walk and it gave Sven a lighter load. He wasn't making very good time and suspected he wouldn't make it as far as he'd hoped to today, but that was alright – he could make up the time tomorrow. Deciding that, he meandered a bit more, stopping to fish in a particularly plentiful creek he knew about, because fish would be nicer with leftover bread than carrots.

The sun was already sinking by the time he'd caught what he wanted. He would have to make _very_ good time tomorrow. But that was alright. He'd make it up.

He built a make-do shelter, something he had perfected long ago, gathered pine needles for an acceptable bed for Sven, and settled in for a night beside the creek. This was the best part of his job – he worked hard almost every day, so when he did want to take it slow for an afternoon, he could. His time was his own. And wasn't that preferable to being a royal with 20 castles to call his own? What did they do with all those rooms, anyway?

Let them hide behind their walls. They would always then need what he brought them, and he would always be this free. And never have to suffer through a single coronation.

That would be just fine by him.

He made a fire, cooked and ate his fish, got Sven settled for the night. Then he lay back to watch the stars come out and enjoy the cooler air of evening. He liked the warm days of summer, but never entirely felt like he belonged there.

On nights outdoors, he didn't unpack anything he couldn't easily replace, and he slept lightly, hardly more than a doze. He had never encountered any man-eating hedgehogs, but he had met with his share of wolves and bears and people looking for easy prey. In that event, he preferred fleeing to fighting, because he couldn't afford the recovery time or risk of permanent weakness that came with injuries. Just as he knew he wasn't stupid no matter what a bunch of city folk thought, he also knew he wasn't a coward for avoiding fights – his livelihood was dependent on being whole and healthy and strong. So, he slept light. He'd had a lifetime of practice.

The moon was high in the sky when he finally fetched his bedroll from the sled and spread it out on the needle carpet of his shelter. "Night, Sven," he said softly – Sven, a heavy sleeper everywhere, never stirred – and curled up under the warm cover of his roll. Breathing in the smells of pine and reindeer, he fell asleep.

When he woke, the faint light told him several hours had passed. But something else was different – it was familiar, but still felt _wrong_. He had his head burrowed into his bedroll, only his face sticking out, and every time he breathed, he could see the smoky-white exhalation.

He could see his breath. In July. What felt wrong was being frigidly, muscle-achingly _cold_.

Carefully, slowly, he sat up, worried he might be ill. But that wouldn't explain his breath. Already, he ached from shivering in his sleep; he wasn't wearing clothes for this type of weather, because July didn't _have_ this type of weather. He rubbed his face to clear away the last of his sleep, and looked out of the shelter.

Snow. It was falling thick and fast, swirling in a hard wind, already building up on the ground. He couldn't see his sled, less than five feet away. If he believed in a higher power, he might wonder if this was comeuppance for a lazy afternoon – it sure looked like he had angered some kind of ice god.

"Great," Kristoff muttered.

He would try to figure out what was going on – but first, he needed to get warmer clothes. Already, his fingers and toes were tingling and his face felt chapped by wind. _This_ was why wearing nice clothes was a bad idea, because some fool at some point had decided "nice" should actually mean "absolutely useless at protecting the human body from rain, snow, heat, or anything, really." Might as well wear nothing at all for all the good it did.

He took a deep breath, ducked out of the shelter, stood and stretched, then stumped out in the general direction of the sled. He stumbled over it rather than actually finding it, but good enough. He would have to dig it out and wrestle with frozen wheels later to be able to use it, but for the time being all he wanted was the bundle of clothes he had planned to wear further up the mountains. Those, thankfully, he kept well wrapped in waxed canvas, so they would be dry.

He hauled the bundle to his shoulder and fought his way back through the newly white world, following his own footprints back to his shelter. It wouldn't be a shelter for long, he saw – not expecting snow, of all things, he hadn't built a lip at the entrance; the wind had already pushed in quite a drift. He was glad he'd at least curved the roof, or the whole thing might have collapsed in on him while he slept. Once he had his mittens on, he would scoop snow off the floor, which would be a slightly better use of his time than just sitting and fuming at a nonexistent ice god, as he was more inclined to do at the moment.

If that ice god did exist, Kristoff had some very pointed questions to ask him. Starting with, "Why would you do this do your most loyal supporter?"

He pulled the clothes from their wrapping – pants, shirt, hat, mittens, scarf, all of them double layered and fur-lined. He pulled it all on over what he was already wearing, because that extra protection couldn't hurt, especially if he was stuck here for a long time with no fire. Fire was out of the question – the one he'd built was long buried, and he wasn't about to go stumbling into the woods to look for dry wood in the middle of a blizzard.

Sven would have to do as a heat source. He was still mostly asleep, completely comfortable despite the change in the weather, opening one eye to watch Kristoff shoving snow out of the shelter. "Thanks for helping," Kristoff grumbled at him. Sven went back to sleep.

Someone had once told Kristoff there were birds that could learn to talk, but having never met one to decide if their conversations were less inane than the ones most people had, he was content with Sven's silence. He was sure warmer than any bird, too.

For the next few hours, Kristoff alternated between dozing with his head on Sven's flank, pushing accumulated snow out of the shelter, and wishing he'd grabbed his lute from the sled, because staring out at white nothing was not interesting for very long. It was worrying him, this weather, more than he liked to admit. He'd dealt with late snows in May, early snows in October, but those were generally short-lived and sparse, leaving nothing but a light dusting on the ground that melted away as quickly as it came. This was definitely not the same thing – not only was it happening in the heart of summer, it was a full-blown blizzard, the kind of thing he expected in January, not July. It looked like three or four feet had accumulated already, and it was still coming down. He would have to go out in it soon, no matter how bad visibility was, or risk the shelter collapsing regardless of the shape of the roof; this was not something he had anticipated when hastily putting it up.

Eventually, he shared the last of the carrots with Sven, wishing he'd saved some of the fish. He was really irritated now, between cold and lack of sleep and hunger and the missed opportunity of going for more ice. Because who was going to buy any now?

Finally, just when he was debating whether it was time to harness Sven up and attempt to make it back alive to somewhere with walls and roof and fireplace, the wind stopped howling and the snow eased to no more than flurries – just like that. Between the natural accumulation (if anything about this could be called natural) and what he had pushed out, there was only a tiny sliver of outside visible through the shelter entrance, but that was enough for him to see the blue sky, a perfect summer's day.

If the sky was blue, where in the world had the last several hours come from?

His irritation grew, made worse by having nothing and no one towards which to direct it. He tried to take it out on the snow as he dug up through it to freedom, but it didn't help much. When he was out, he cleared a larger space for Sven to do the same, gathered up the bedroll and the canvas for his clothes, and went to survey the likely difficulty of getting the sled out.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been, but it wasn't good either – snow was piled almost as high as the seat, and of course _on_ the seat, and when he cleared some away he found the wheels he bolted on every summer were frozen solid in place, as he'd feared they would be. When cursing failed to dislodge them, he headed off to try to find wood for a fire. He would need to boil water, pour it on the bolts, and wrench them off before they froze again. It would be another couple of hours, at least, before he would be able to go anywhere. Another whole day wasted.

He traveled higher up into the hills, where the trees were thicker, hoping some of them might have dropped branches from the weight of snow or that they entwined enough to keep the ground beneath dry. He didn't have any luck with either, but he did take advantage of one of the taller hills to survey the extent of storm damage from the apex.

He could see almost as far as Arendelle, but it didn't really matter, because the whole world was a perfect, pristine white under that cloudless blue sky. Then he realized, no - not cloudless, not entirely. He could see the North Mountain, only a few miles away, and what he saw on it made snow in July seem almost normal.

A blizzard – that was the only word he had for it, a maelstrom of wind and snow and vapor, contained and angry-looking, pulling in on itself more and more tightly even as he watched.

A blizzard that was traveling very deliberately _up_ the North Mountain.

* * *

When Hans and several guards finally reached the bottom of the steps, Anna scarcely acknowledged them, was barely aware of their arrival. She was still on her knees on the ice, trembling with cold and shock, staring at the trees on the far shore where Elsa had disappeared. She whispered her sister's name, but got the same response she always did:

Nothing.

When Hans reached her, she let him help her up, and when he put an arm around her trembling shoulders, she did nothing to resist. But she didn't look at him, couldn't look away from where Elsa had gone, because that would make it true, she wasn't going to appear again, she had left for good. This nightmare would all be real.

"Are you alright?" Hans asked, and she shook her head "Did you know?" Another shake – all she could manage.

"What of the queen?" one of the guards asked.

"Gone," Anna said softly. "She's gone."

The guards were spreading out, like they couldn't quite believe her, stepping carefully on the ice. Two of them actually had their swords out, and that sent a visceral anger through Anna's daze, finally breaking her from the numb shock. She pulled away from Hans and pointed at one of them. "Put your weapons away." Her voice shook, losing what little authority it might otherwise have possessed. "Who do you think you're looking for?"

The men with swords looked appropriately abashed and did as she told them, but one of the others stared at her with a sneer on his lips, defiant. His hand was on the hilt of his own sword, though he didn't pull it. "I don't know, your highness, who _are_ we looking for?"

Anna's jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed. "You are looking for your _queen_. For _my sister_. Don't you _dare_ go after her with swords!"

One of the other guards put a hand on the shoulder of the defiant one, attempting to placate him – and Anna. "We need to figure out what's going on first. We don't need weapons now. Queen Elsa isn't here."

The first guard jerked away and pointed at Anna. "But _she_ is. How do we know she's not just as dangerous? How do we know they're not _both_ monsters?"

Anna would have gone for him, sword be damned, if Hans had not grabbed her arm. "Elsa is _not_ a monster! She was just... she was _scared_!"

For a moment, she and the defiant guard stared at one another. Then he snorted, pulled the badge with the crest of Arendelle from his uniform, and dropped it to the ice at his feet. "Everyone warned me before I took this job – something's not right about that family. Guess I should have listened to them." He stepped pointedly on the badge and stalked past Anna, heading for the steps.

What he had said, what he had done, was tantamount to treason, and the placating guard started to go after him, but Anna shook her head, held a hand out. "No – let him leave. We need – I mean, I need everyone back at the castle. Make sure people are alright – all the people here for the coronation. They'll need, uh... They'll need warm clothes. Rooms with fireplaces." Her mind was moving faster than her mouth could keep up – the opposite of her usual problem – and she had never actually given orders before, but she had to get her instructions out now, as quickly as possible.

Before she left.

She looked out over the fjord, now a solid sheet of ice barnacled with trapped ships. The trees on the far shoreline were whipping in the wind, and on both shores, snow was starting to accumulate. She had put the pieces together, yes, but it still seemed impossible – Elsa had done this? _Elsa_?

She had to go after her. Find out what was going on. Help her.

"Find food and provide shelter for anyone who needs it," Anna went on, her voice steadier now, more sure of herself. "If there's not enough food in the pantries at the castle, you have my authorization to use whatever funds are necessary to buy more." She didn't know anything about castle finances, but hopefully there was enough to buy food – there must be. Right? "Firewood, too – hire men from the city to go out and cut more. Is all that clear?"

"Yes, Princess Anna," the placating guard said. "It will be done just as you say."

"Anna," Hans said, and she realized for the first time that he was still holding her arm – he was pulling her back, gently, so she was face to face with him. "I know what you're planning to do. You can't go after her. It's much too dangerous."

She smiled at him, trying to reassure him. "Elsa's not dangerous."

"You can't know that for sure."

"She's my sister. She would never hurt me."

"Then I want to go with you."

"I need you here. I need you to take care of Arendelle." She could tell he wasn't sure, but she didn't have time to try to convince him. She had to go. So she smiled again and said, "I'll be back soon. I promise."

Before he could argue – and hopefully before he realized how much she was shivering, if he somehow hadn't noticed already – she pulled from him and picked her way across the ice, head high, back to the stairwell. But when she was safely out of his sight, away from his beautiful worried eyes, and the sight of the guards, who needed to believe she was someone worth obeying, she hunched and crossed her arms tightly, rubbing them vigorously with her hands. It was _freezing_.

She wanted to think about Elsa, try to figure all this insanity out, but she knew she had to focus on Arendelle first. And that was well and good, in theory, but what did Arendelle need except food and fire? And should she tell anyone else? Who was the right person to tell? She didn't know anything.

She stopped halfway up the stairs, resisting the urge to beat her head on the stone wall, instead sighing out a disgruntled cloud of white vapor. "I'm bringing you back here, Elsa," she muttered, "because I am _not_ cut out for this ruling business."

And she went on, rubbing her arms again.

In the square, she was surprised at the people still there – commoners and aristocrats alike, wandering like they were lost, most of them staring up at the falling snow as if they'd never seen such a thing before. Maybe some of the visitors hadn't. But why were they all still out here? It felt to Anna as if hours had passed since she had been chasing after Elsa – but maybe it hadn't really been that long?

She had never felt so completely, all-encompassingly confused in her entire life. It was a feeling she was already hoping never to repeat.

She was walking towards the castle doors – they were still standing wide open, still framed by those spiky shards of ice Elsa had somehow conjured up – when the first person called her name. She never saw who it was, because almost immediately others joined in, calling her, shouting questions:

"Princess Anna, where is the queen?"

"Princess Anna, what do you know about this?"

"Your majesty, you must send someone to stop her!"

And then there were too many people shouting to be heard for her to make out more than some of the emotions coming from the cacophony: angry, scared, demanding. She tried to get them quiet – she shouted at them to wait, hold on, waved her arms when that didn't work – but for all the good it did she might as well have just whispered to her own (numb) toes. Her consternation grew when she gave up and tried to walk on, because they were surrounding her now, and every one of them seemed to be yelling.

"Just _wait_!" Anna yelled right back. "Please – I'm going to find her – find the queen!"

But if any of them heard her, that was apparently not what they wanted to hear. She was beginning to understand why Elsa had panicked, as well as the usefulness of being able to call up ice spikes from thin air. Anna wasn't frightened – they weren't getting too close, probably not sure if she could do the ice-spike thing – but she _was_ getting angry.

Finally, for the second time on this impossibly long day, she was saved by Hans appearing with a horse. But this time, the horse was hers, and it was already saddled and bridled; he was leading it through the crowd, which parted for him quite readily. And this was why she loved him – he didn't want her to go, but supported her decision nonetheless. He was helping her to find Elsa in the best possible way he could.

She smiled gratefully at him when he reached her, and put a hand on his arm. "Thank you. For everything."

He reached out with his free hand and cupped her cheek. "Promise me you'll come back safely. I don't want you to get hurt." She looked at his eyes as long as she felt she could spare, at his face, making sure she wouldn't forget a single detail. Judging by his own gaze, he was doing the same.

"I promise," she said. "There's so much more to our marriage than a single day."

"A lifetime more," he agreed."And I expect all of it."

"You'll get it."

He pulled a bag – small and easy to carry, with a loop to tie it like a belt – and her long winter cloak from atop the saddle. "There's enough money you should be able to get a place to sleep, but not enough to look suspicious," he said, helping her with the bag around her waist. "Look for smoke from chimneys, but you should perhaps be cautious about telling people who you really are. I asked one of your men to put some food in there, too. And he brought this." Hans wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and tied it at her neck with tender care.

Then he helped her on the horse and smiled up at her. "Be careful."

She nodded, more resolutely than she felt. "I will."

Then she kicked the horse, and rode out through the walls. Out of the city. Away from everything she had ever known.

Towards Elsa.


	15. Chapter 13

**Let's celebrate two well-deserved Oscar nominations with another chapter, shall we? (Well, it's how I chose to celebrate, anyway!) I thought Hans should get this one - thirteenth chapter for a thirteenth son. Because I did always wonder what he was actually getting up to in Arendelle when it was his and his alone.**

**And here is where we begin to diverge significantly from the movie. The timeframe will be shifted a bit, events and viewpoints may change. But nonetheless, we're moving ultimately in the same direction, you and I, and of course Anna and Kristoff and Hans too... and Elsa. Up the mountain. A little patience, if you please, and we'll be there soon enough. **

* * *

**PART 3: THE ICE PALACE**

**Chapter 13**

Anna dug the heels of her inadequate little shoes into the horse's sides and rode away at a trot, never once looking back, disappearing into the darkness beyond the walls. Hans had to admire such single-minded determination – and the unconditional love she clearly felt for a sister, the kind of love he had never known in his own family or felt for anyone himself. It was admirable, but also dangerously impulsive, what she was doing. He had his doubts about her safety, but also hoped, perhaps unfairly, that she might get cold and come back before too long – before anything could happen to her.

In the meantime, someone had to take control of Arendelle itself. Anna's hurried instructions to her guards had been fine for spur-of-the-moment necessity, but food and firewood alone were not going to be enough to guarantee the situation would not deteriorate still further. Anna had not taken several important factors into consideration, likely due to her naïveté. Fortunately, Hans _had_ considered those things – namely, the large amounts of strong drink that had been been flowing freely for the better part of a day and night; the number of strangers in a normally insular city; and the distrust many, especially commoners, felt towards anything that seemed even vaguely supernatural.

If any one of these things forced the city to breaking point, Hans knew serious trouble might result. Two in tandem would be worse; all three together would probably mean the most volatile situation since the French had lopped off their king's head. If Anna returned to that kind of tempest, she might find herself as the chosen stand-in for the fate they wanted to offer her sister – it wouldn't be the first such incident.

But Hans did not mean to allow that to happen. He and Anna were to be married – this was his kingdom now too, and he intended to see it stay safe and whole. The first thing he had to do, then, was to get everyone's attention and make sure they understood what was going on, before too many wild rumors had a chance to spread.

He surveyed the crowd, getting its measure. Most people appeared still in dazed wonder, looking up at the falling snow or reacquainting themselves with walking on ice. That was good – gawking meant it was less likely people were talking to each other, risking frayed nerves inciting arguments. He saw a group of noblemen having a heated discussion about something near the steps leading up to the castle, but nobles he was not particularly concerned about. It appeared overall to be the perfect time to get everyone's attention, before unrestrained speculation could cause too much trouble, while they were still ready to listen to words of strength and comfort from a figure of authority.

He just needed to find a good place from which to offer those words. He looked around again, this time focusing on his surroundings, rather than the people – the walls, the gates, the frozen fountains, the castle itself. It had the balcony where Anna had taken him, but that was much too high. There was another, however, on what looked like a second or third floor. That would do nicely.

He went to one of the guards who had accompanied him earlier, asked to speak to the steward of the castle. That got him to the captain of the guards, who took him to a man who introduced himself as Per Johanssen, butler to Queen Elsa and to her father before her. He was, he explained, the most senior member of the queen's staff; the castle did not have a steward.

To Hans, this was one more thing to add to the long list of Arendelle's royal peculiarities, but he would give those greater consideration at a later time. "I am Prince Hans, of the Southern Isles," he said, then briefly considered mentioning his betrothal to Anna, but decided it might only further confuse matters. "Princess Anna has left me in charge."

The butler started. They were standing near Elsa's ice shards, on the steps before the door, and these he had paid no mind to, but Anna's absence had rattled him – could he have already known about Elsa? No time to think about it, but it stuck in Hans' mind.

"Princess Anna? She's not here?"

"She's left to find the queen. I did not feel that it was my place to argue with her." Nor did he plan to argue about it now, despite the look on Per's face that clearly spoke of his questioning Hans' judgment. There were more important matters to deal with than Anna. "You've been advised of what happened here tonight, I assume?"

Per hesitated, and his answer was cautious: "I have heard some of what occurred, yes. I know that something frightened Queen Elsa, and her whereabouts are unknown. And I am led to understand now that Princess Anna has gone to look for her, and left you in charge of Arendelle."

Hans did not think he had made a particularly good impression on the man, but he had gained some valuable information – Per would not be likely to spread rumors or speculate unnecessarily. This would be useful if he needed someone to handle messages that must be conveyed exactly as presented, messages he might not wish to entrust to writing.

But for the moment, Hans needed something else: "I would like to speak to the people of Arendelle, to reassure them. How do I get to the balcony, there?" He pointed.

Again, Per briefly hesitated before answering. "Through the royal quarters, your highness."

Hans wanted to ask if the man thought he was going to steal the silver or rifle through the queen's wardrobe – was he being deliberately impertinent, or did he truly believe keeping a prince of the Southern Isles out of a bedroom was more important than Arendelle's safety? But no, he would see this as part of his job, the caution and the consideration; those who earned such esteemed positions would invariably be those who took them very seriously. What Hans must do was earn his trust.

"You may accompany me," Hans allowed. "I must beg your assistance – I have had the opportunity to see little of the castle."

Per's expression showed distaste, but he said, "Yes, your highness," and turned to go back inside, allowing Hans to follow.

There were guards in the entrance hall now, standing among the puddles of melting ice – where in the world had they been a quarter hour ago, when their queen was running through leaving chaos in her wake, her sister haring after her? All of this might have been prevented if they had been guarding the doors, as some of them surely should have been. There was a lack of discipline in the royal household of Arendelle; Hans thought it might be in everyone's best interests if he brought his own small retinue of guards to work with those already here. Strong protection of the castle would be essential as long as it was full of visiting royalty and aristocrats and their own traveling households, some of whom _might_ actually try to abscond with the silver. Hans had no intention of allowing anything of the sort to happen while he was in charge.

He added it to his growing mental list of things to get done, and tried to resign himself to the unlikelihood of getting to bed tonight. For the time being, he needed to focus on the things he wanted to say – what Anna had ordered, of course, but he was also wondering if he should recommend that the common people return to their homes, in order to prevent unrest. Or would such orders from a stranger just foment it? Certainly, he would need them outside the outer walls of the castle, so he could concentrate on internal matters, such as finding rooms for himself and everyone else who needed them.

Though as to the last, as far as his own room was concerned, he thought he might have the problem solved agreeably quickly when Per unlocked and opened the ornately painted door leading to the royal quarters. He had assumed this would be Queen Elsa's rooms, but they appeared unused; the air had the musty smell of a place long shut, and most of the furnishings were covered with dustcloths. It was a small space – they entered into a modest sitting room, and only three doors opened off of it, one of which was glass and led clearly to the balcony rather than to another room – but Hans thought it would still allow him the privacy he would need to handle Arendelle's current, rather unusual situation.

"Through here," Per said, opening the door to the balcony and bowing Hans through. He then remained rather pointedly in the doorway, but perhaps he had decided this was the appropriate place to be of assistance, and no insubordination was intended. This was why royal households needed stewards, a person whose sole purpose was to delegate exactly what everyone else in the household was expected to be doing, down to the meanest scullery maid. Something else for his list – find someone to act as steward.

But for the moment, he went to the railing of the balcony and looked out over the crowd below. It was odd, but he found himself savoring this moment – it held so much potential, so much of what he had always dreamed he would be able to do if he was finally acknowledged as more than just one among many extraneous sons. Silently, looking over her city, he thanked Anna for affording him this opportunity.

He was sure now that he had picked Arendelle's greatest prize.

Raising his gloved hands, he called for the attention of the people below – citizens, visitors, all those who would offer their support to the kingdom in this time of crisis, and whom the kingdom would support in turn. The strange weather, he said, was under investigation by the greatest minds in the kingdom – a lie at the moment, but he planned to make it true. Queen Elsa's disappearance was also of utmost concern, as well as anything she might know about what had transpired tonight; her sister, the princess Anna, had set out to find her and make sure she was able to return safely; they were expected back within the day. For the time being, he would ask everyone present to hope for their safe return.

There were several urgent matters, he went on, that he wanted them to know were being taken care of; he detailed Anna's instructions regarding food, seeking firewood, and those who might find rooms in the castle, but added his own ideas – food and firewood would be available in the square, to ensure everyone got what they needed. The castle was to be charged for these things, not the people, at fair cost. Anyone visiting who needed a room should find a guard, who would inform someone in the royal staff of the need. Space would be available in the ballroom – another mental note: have the ice inside cleaned up – and in the formal dining room for any servants, sailors, or staff who needed a place.

As for the people of Arendelle, for everyone's safety tonight, he would like to ask them to return to their homes until the storm broke – it was expected to very soon, he said, and nobody questioned him despite their craning to hear him over the howling wind, to see him through the snow. Beginning tomorrow, he would meet by appointment with anyone who had any concerns; unless of course, and as he hoped, Queen Elsa and Princess Anna had returned. Until that time, he wished everyone going a safe journey home, and hoped they would keep warm and remain inside until the storm had passed. Those who sought rooms in the castle might come inside the entrance hall to wait until places had been readied for them.

"Your highness," Per said when Hans came back in from the balcony, enjoying the smattering of applause and glad to be out of the wind, "we do not have many bedrooms prepared for guests – the castle, as you must know, has seen few visitors for quite some time."

Hans looked at him, carefully constructing an imploring expression. "Those were Princess Anna's orders; she gave them to me as well as several of her guards. I need you to find a way."

Per was silent for a moment, taking perhaps longer than was necessary to close the balcony door. "I'll see what I can manage," he finally said. "And may I arrange a room for you, your highness?"

"I was considering the possibility of using these rooms, actually. They appear to be unoccupied."

"Queen Elsa chose to retain her own room. No one has used these since the king and queen were lost."

It was clearly meant as a rebuke, but Hans saw suddenly an opportunity to perhaps redeem himself, at least somewhat, in this man's contemptuous mind. "My apologies – I didn't realize." He took the gamble: "I met your former king once, you know."

Mild, polite interest: "Did you?"

"He came to see my father, when I was very small. They spoke of their service under Denmark during the wars with Napoleon. Your king noticed me, took the time to regale me with stories of their exploits, all their adventures at sea. He struck me as a wise man, and a very kind one." It was partially true – both men had been involved in the wars, but Hans' father's role had been advisory only; he was even then already beyond the age for glory in battle. Hans had been dared by one of his brothers to eavesdrop on the meeting, and had been caught by – probably ratted on to – his governess, which had lost Hans his dessert for a week. He had only glimpsed the king of Arendelle in passing, but his research into the family had revealed the king's service under Frederick VI of Denmark.

He was glad his background work – and his seven-year-old self's loss of puddings – was already proving to have been worth the effort. Indeed, Per's countenance softened noticeably. "His majesty always believed a ruler's greatest duty was to protect his people," he said. "Even if it might cost him his own life."

"A sentiment I share," Hans said. "It is also why Princess Anna asked me to stay – to ensure the safety of the people of Arendelle."

"And as a servant of the queen, I will do everything in my power to assist. Including finding... more _suitable_ accommodations than these."

It was clearly an attempt at compromise, Hans though, a chance to make peace. The senior-most staff member supporting his efforts would make his job immensely easier when things grew more complicated. So Hans accepted the offer. And the room to which he was taken was not as bad as he might have feared – the bed and desk both appeared adequate, even if it was a shame they were in the same space; he liked to keep work and play separate. He supposed he could always request a screen.

He gave Per a list of his needs – his servants and guards to be found places and his things to be brought from his ship; and please tell his valet he would have need of him first thing in the morning. For tonight, he needed paper and pen – those first and most importantly – and a bite to eat, something simple, and coffee to accompany it. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly it all happened, his requests delivered, a fire built, word brought that his men and his trunks had arrived. Maybe the castle was not quite so inefficiently run as he had assumed.

He worked on his list of things to do for much of the rest of the night, drinking several cups of a much coarser coffee than he was used to; he would have to ask that they in future use what he had brought with him. When the light of the early dawn shone through the gap in the curtains, he was finally able to stretch and yawn and declare his list sufficient for a beginning. Now, the time had come to begin to implement it.

First things first – or rather, likely lengthiest task first. He called for a blacksmith to be found and brought to meet with him privately. Then he asked for Gunnar, his personal valet. (Well, in truth, Gunnar was one of his father's lower chamberlains, who managed the household of their winter estate. But as he was the highest ranking of those assigned to accompany the envoy, Hans had designated him as his valet for the time they spent in Arendelle. Gunnar, who had not achieved his position by arguing, had quite readily agreed.)

When Gunnar arrived, Hans set him the task of collecting the names and official duties of everyone employed in the castle, as well as a list of those dignitaries and aristocrats who had been given rooms. "Get as much detail as you reasonably can. And see if an official guest list was compiled. We need to make sure everyone visiting is accounted for." It wouldn't do to discover some drunken duke had wandered off in a stupor, only to be found frozen to death several days from now.

Speaking of freezing, he needed to have a check on the weather – before dismissing him, he asked Gunnar to open the curtains. His view was out over the fjord, not towards Arendelle and the wilderness beyond, but he doubted that much mattered: he could see the damage Queen Elsa had wrought just fine from here, looking across what should have been open water even on the coldest winter's day. Now, it was ice, ice as far as he could see, creeping up the sides of trapped ships, sharp fronds hanging from masts, all of it glowing like broken glass under the bright morning sun. Snow still fell too, despite the bright sky, but at least last night's blizzard had eased to flurries.

Well, he might console himself that his questions about the royal family's secrets had been answered – in spades. But once he had dealt with the most immediate concerns of today, he thought it might be time to delve a bit more deeply in Arendelle's recent history. He needed to know who had been aware of this possibility, if anything similar had happened before – though surely word would have gotten out? - and if questions had ever been raised about Elsa's ability to rule, either before or after her parents' deaths. Because someone must have known. Gunnar's list would include the queen's personal attendants; he made a note to track down her advisors as well.

And it was painful to consider, because he knew it would leave her heartbroken, but he would have to be absolutely sure there was no evidence at all of a similar taint in Anna. Their marriage, such as it was, would have to be declared an impossibility if Anna was like her sister, because he would not risk any children he might have to such an inheritance. He was regretting somewhat allowing her to leave before they had further discussed the whole situation – her loyalty to her sister was touching, but there were much greater things at stake. He should have reminded her of that, rather than letting her be guided by caprice.

He thought back to their vows on the balcony the night before. Anna had been so eager, so vibrant with excitement and hope, that his first impulse had been to move on to the next part of making a marriage – and if he had suggested going afterward to her bedroom, he suspected she would have agreed quite willingly. But from the way she had described her sister, he had formed the impression that Elsa, like so many monarchs before her, only felt comfortable when her power over even the most mundane aspects of others' lives was secure. And if Anna hadn't mentioned the damn vows, maybe things could have been smoothed over.

But then, of course, he wouldn't have known what Elsa could do until it might already have been too late – for himself, for any heirs he might have. Maybe Anna's confession had been a help, not a hindrance. Still, he found it hard to believe she could have known nothing about what Elsa could do, particularly given the scale of what he saw through the window. Unless, perhaps, even Elsa herself hadn't known? She had displayed little enough control. But then why the years of secrecy?

A knock on the door interrupted his idle speculations – a boon, or he might have wasted a significant amount of time chasing thoughts in circles. When Per bowed the man into Hans' room, it was immediately apparently who the visitor must be: stocky, heavily muscled, with a face that suggested he must have at least once angered someone built much like himself. He looked Hans right in the eye, as if he thought the two of them equals.

So Hans decided to play the situation as if this was actually the case. "My good man," he said, "my deepest appreciation to you for coming so quickly."

The man shrugged and tugged on his ear with two grimy fingers. "Might as well. Ain't like anyone's bringin' me work to do, weather what it is."

"You're a blacksmith?"

A nod. "Thomas Anderssen," he said, and stuck out his hand. The whole of it was as filthy as his fingers, but Hans needed his assistance – he accepted and shook, glad he was still wearing his gloves but now rather wishing he'd chosen some in a color besides white. He would have to remember to seek out the gray pair and ask that the white be laundered.

"Prince Hans," he introduced himself to Anderssen the blacksmith. "I have a request to make of you, if you are interested in work despite the weather?"

"Might be I am. If the pay's good."

He was more impertinent than Per – this was how quickly problems could arise if people were left without adequate oversight! It really was frightening, how desperate was the need in commoners to be led. Combined with the fear they were probably now feeling, everything could easily fall to chaos if he let even the slightest thing slip. Fortunately, he did not intend to let that happen.

"The pay will match the quality and speed of your work. If you can produce what I need as quickly as I need it, I will make sure you never have to work a single day again."

"How do I know that's true?"

Even after so much like this in the past few hours, Hans was still somewhat taken aback – he had rarely, if ever, had his word questioned once his position was known; certainly it had _never_ happened with a common tradesman. He wondered what his father would make of Arendelle – or how quickly he would unmake it, presented with such as Hans was dealing with.

But he was not his father, and rather different methods might prove more effective here – as they had already done with Per... and with Anna.

"I will give you cost for the materials initially, before you leave this room," Hans said. "And I will trust you to make me an honest estimate – though I will ask that you use materials of the highest quality, as befits a royal."

Anderssen scratched his nose and stared as Hans as if trying to decide whether it was an offer he wanted to take. His face was rough, but his eyes were surprisingly shrewd. "What d'you want made?" he finally asked.

Hans smiled – the deed was as good as done. "A pair of manacles," he said. And as he proceeded to describe them, Anderssen was nodding, agreeing.

The deed _would_ be done.


	16. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

She could still see the lights of the city when she admitted to herself that tracking people through the woods was yet another potential hidden talent she probably did not possess. But she was not going back. Not until she found Elsa. She was _not_.

Still, Anna could already feel how easily she might break that vow. There was no one to tell her if it was the right or wrong thing to feel, but as her determination melted away (the _only_ thing out here that was melting), its replacement was too insistent to ignore: she was afraid. And she tried to remind herself of what real fear looked like – Elsa's eyes, her hands, the way she had run – but that just made her feel worse, because it was as if feeling afraid herself was taking something away from Elsa. That was ridiculous, she knew it was ridiculous – and yet, there it was.

It was better than anger, at least. Because that was lurking too, and she definitely didn't want the guilt that would come along with it, no matter how justified it might be. Because that image would be there again, impossible to ignore – that look in Elsa's eyes. She worried it might be there forever, burned into her mind for the rest of her life, always lurking at the edges of whatever her own eyes saw.

Not that they were seeing much right now, beyond the swirling snow. That was visible, reflecting the moonlight, when nothing else was – or maybe it was all just obscured. Anna had always enjoyed winter and any time the seasons were changing, but she had also always had the choice of going inside to warm up. When she thought of cold weather, it brought to mind the dark, earthy smell of damp wool, when she removed her boots and sat in front of a fire, legs splayed out comfortably to dry her stockinged feet.

There was no fire now, no boots, not even real stockings, not like the ones that actually kept her legs warm. And her stupid dress, all silk and organza and very pretty, but of absolutely no use out here in the elements – she'd like to have a strong word with the person who had decided on the appropriateness of such things when a night like this could happen; the shoes too, they were soaked through and her toes ached so much she dreaded the very thought of walking. Her cloak was nice and warm, and she was very grateful to Hans for thinking of getting it for her, but it just wasn't enough. She was shivering so hard it hurt.

She had known as soon as she decided to go that figuring out _where_ to go would be the hardest part. The simplest answer had been to just follow the general direction Elsa had been going when she had disappeared into the trees, but even that was quickly proving frustratingly difficult. No more than the slightly different view when she left via the gates had been enough to make her doubt that she was following that same path. She was well into the woods by now, but she hadn't felt brave enough to leave the path – little enough that there was – and it felt like it was going the wrong way, and nevermind that she didn't actually know the _right _way.

It would have been nice to have a map as well as warm clothes – useless for finding Elsa, she knew that, but at least she could come up with a plan for where to go. And how to get back home. Because if she did leave the path, she doubted she would be able to find it again.

If – _when_ – she found her, hopefully Elsa would know how to get back. "She better," Anna muttered, ducking under a low-hanging branch but nonetheless winding up with a faceful of snow when she missed the next one. After sputtering and trying to wipe it off with her cloak – but of course half of it wound up down her dress – she decided the solution might be to just skin Elsa and turn her into the needed map. Accuracy would be optional, and hardly the point.

But then there were those eyes again. Elsa cringing against the door. Her smile before she ran across the fjord.

How could someone Anna loved so much, wanted so desperately to protect, also leave her so infuriated? And that much more determined to find Elsa – so she could decide, once and for all, whether to hug her or hit her or both.

She tried for awhile to figure out which way the path was going, but all she could really tell was that Arendelle was out of sight, so she must be moving in some direction away from it. That might mean north, because the biggest mountain directly beyond the city was the _North_ Mountain, but mightn't it actually be north of something else? She didn't know, any more than she knew how that knowledge might help her if it _was_ north. She didn't have a compass. She didn't know how to read a compass if she did have one. And she had a vague notion she'd heard or read about telling directions from the stars, but she couldn't do _that_ either, and there was too much stupid snow regardless.

Snow and ice and wind and cold and darkness and she was fairly certain she was lost and her toes hurt from the cold and everything else hurt from shivering and she wanted to go home. Even if everything was locked up again, home was warm and safe and familiar and there were people to help her figure out what to do. That was all she wanted – to have someone else figure it all out, solve all the problems and make it all better.

She leaned over and against her horse, letting him take the lead because it didn't make any difference if they were lost anyway, giving herself a tiny bit of comfort from the heat off his back. She wondered if Elsa was cold, wherever she was. Would she know how to find someplace warm? She always seemed to know so much more about everything than Anna did.

It was all still so hard to wrap her mind around – because Elsa hadn't just seemed smart, she'd always seemed good at absolutely anything she tried, from the time of Anna's earliest memories. Better at everything than Anna, but also so close to a perfect queen in miniature – her clothes were always neat, her hair always carefully done up, her expressions all but inscrutable, her calm absolute. She was everything Anna knew she would never be, and for Elsa, it all seemed so effortless.

She got so much attention, too – their father taking the time for all those special lessons and practices and reviews. And Anna had told herself how boring it must be, how glad she was to only have her half day of tutors and then no more and all the freedom of afternoons, but even as a child she had understood that she was jealous of her sister. Elsa had a purpose, Elsa was perfect, Elsa could do no wrong. Anna was the afterthought with holes in her stockings and dirt on her face, late or wrong or not invited at all.

And how old had she been when she had realized there was something disjointed about Elsa – the girl being prepared to be queen and the girl who spent every other hour locked away in her room? Anna could not remember, but she did remember the discomfort she had felt, almost like fear, as her maturing mind tried to reconcile the two. She had tried to figure out who she might ask or what she might ask them, but she never asked anyone anything. Maybe some part of her still wanted to believe Elsa was perfect, the childish part that still longed to be just like her.

She had known there were some difficult periods for Elsa – she could hear her crying, sometimes the muffled screaming if someone dared to attempt to enter her room. But Anna had had bad days too, moody days, days when she found herself shouting or crying or in a rage about almost nothing at all. She had dismissed Elsa as dealing with the same – because reconciling it with the Elsa she had idolized _and_ the Elsa who never left her room was more than she could manage on her own. No one else ever said anything, so it must be alright.

So many signs she must have ignored, so many times she might have been able to help: if the door had ever, just once, opened when she knocked. If she had paid more attention.

If anyone had just _told_ her.

Because who must have known? Elsa. Elsa of course must have known, must have been afraid of someone – Anna? - setting her off just as had happened earlier that night. Their parents? Anna remembered inexplicable looks that passed between them when Elsa left dinner before being dismissed, when Anna drew up the courage to ask about her sister, or when Elsa once again failed to appear for something at which she had been requested. The servants and staff? Only a few had gone into Elsa's room – had those few known? Per and Sigrid, who had spent so much time with her over the past three years? Gerda, hired as maid to the children when Anna was born, who still changed their beds and laundered their clothes and treated Anna – and likely Elsa – as if she were still five years old?

Someone had to have known. Maybe lots of someones. And not a single one had thought to tell Anna. The sister, now heir apparent, all the family the queen had left.

And look what had happened. "None of this _would_ have happened if she'd just told me," Anna muttered to her horse's neck. "If I'm ever queen, I'm outlawing secrets." But that reminded her of the possibility of not finding Elsa. Of having to go back without her. Of dealing with all this alone. And then the fear was back.

"I can't do it, Elsa," she said, so softly her voice was all but inaudible over the keening wind. "Please come back – we can do it together, alright? I won't leave you alone, so you don't leave me alone. Please? Please, Elsa?"

At some point, she dozed off, despite the cold and fear and discomfort, or maybe it was because of those things, some kind of self protection. She woke stiff and confused, jerking in surprise and almost falling off her horse and hissing at the pain in her exhausted, overworked muscles. It felt like someone had been beating her steadily for several hours.

She lifted her head from the horse's neck and blinked, trying to clear the gritty blurriness out of her eyes. Her hair had mostly fallen from its bundled braid and was hanging in her face, but she couldn't work up the necessary energy to bend her stiff arm up to brush it back. She could not remember ever in her life feeling so exhausted and tender and abused. She had never really wondered what it felt like to be a bruise, but thought she now knew nonetheless.

When she found Elsa, she was going to hit her. She had decided, once and for all. If her arms hadn't fallen off.

The sun had come out, or maybe just reappeared out of the snow at some point, though it was still shadowy, dark as dusk beneath the trees. Still, she felt relief that there was any light at all – it might be frigid, she might hurt all over, Elsa might still be missing, but nonetheless, Anna could have cried with the relief of being able to see her own hands. Even better, they were red with cold. Or at least, she thought that was a good sign, because someone had told her red meant no frostbite. Or maybe she had read it somewhere. Regardless, she could feel her fingers, and her toes too, and she knew that was good even if they definitely didn't _feel_ good.

Slowly, very slowly, very carefully, she flexed those fingers, opened and closed her hands. They seemed to work, so she tried her arms, pushing herself back up to sit straight in the saddle. Her horse was moving at a plod now, probably as tired as she was, especially since he was struggling through several feet of snow. Poor thing – Anna would need to let him rest soon; he'd been walking for hours. She would have to find a safe place for them to stop.

But where that might be, she had absolutely no idea. Finally shoving her unruly hair out of her face and rubbing her eyes, she looked around, rather desperately hoping that some sign of human life would miraculously grow from the wilderness. But all she could see were trees and snow and more trees and more snow. She had no idea if they had left the path, though that seemed likely, or when they might have left it, or how far from it they were, or how to get back to it. Not to mention she had no idea which way they were going or how to get back to Arendelle. For all she knew, they might already be going back that way.

What she did know was that the world looked very strange, the bright, leafy trees of summer contrasted with several feet of cold, wet, winter weather. It was as hard to reconcile as the memory of watching Elsa run across the surface of the water as it froze around her, when with every step it seemed impossible she wouldn't fall and disappear. Or as hard to reconcile the Elsa Anna had been sure she knew, even if only from a distance, with the one she had met last night.

She needed to get out of the trees, or maybe to higher ground, or both – somewhere where she could see more than just what was right in front of her. But how to do that? Look for an incline, probably, at least for a start. Not seeing any obvious signs of one, she let the horse continue to choose the way and kept an eye out for any signs of the land veering up.

Her tutors had forced geography on her, and studies of trees and rocks and weather, too. Why hadn't she paid more attention? All her daydreams of setting off on adventures, seeing the world, she should have thought all that boring nonsense might prove important. Now, she tried to recall something, anything, she might be able to use. But - just like the meaning of the redness in her hands - instead she had a head full of jumbled information that seemed without any useful context: certain types of trees grew at certain elevations. Water flow directions, something to do with the sea. The lines that marked Arendelle's boundaries, the fjord and mountains and somewhere nearby was Norway.

Useless, useless, _useless_.

Alright, then – she would start paying closer attention now, from here onwards, and just figure it out for herself. The people who had figured out the geography and the trees and the rocks and the weather, that's what they must have done, because all those lessons she'd suffered through hadn't just come out of nowhere. And if they could do it, why couldn't she? She'd figure it all out, then figure out how to find Elsa, Elsa would come back with her, problems solved. All of them. It might also help Anna take her mind off how cold and uncomfortable she still was.

She had to decide where to start – the trees? She didn't know what kind they were, but she could still learn to identify them so she'd know when she was around this area. The trees were very close together, and most of them were quite tall, and that was why it still seemed so dark and why she couldn't find the stupid mountains _or_ Arendelle. It was hard to tell what their trunks looked like because of the deep shadows, but the leaves were small and green and high up, except the ones that had needles instead; those grew lower down. And she remembered the branches growing still lower the night before, – dumping snow on her – and that told her that she was was in a different area now.

She sat up straighter and allowed herself a pleased half-smile despite there being no one there to see. Maybe this was actually going to work! But she needed to find other details, something besides trees. And besides snow, which seemed to look exactly the same everywhere and was therefore good for nothing at all.

So what else was there? She didn't think she'd been in a forest before, but she should be able to figure out what a forest had in it: rocks, grass, maybe ferns or something, but those would all be buried. What else? Animals? She hadn't seen any, but she hadn't really been looking. But animals moved, so they wouldn't help. Maybe nests, but when she craned her (painfully stiff) neck up to look, she couldn't find anything that didn't look like normal tree-parts.

And so she was back to where she had begun – trees and snow. Her enthusiasm somewhat deflated, she let the horse plod on and returned to stewing in frustration and trying to find a warmer way to wrap her cloak. She kind of wanted to go back to Arendelle and start over, this time with maps and a guide and maybe a plan – and she might have tried that, if she'd had any idea at all of how to get back.

Lacking any other ideas and hoping it might be a little cathartic, she tried calling Elsa's name a few times, shouting blindly into the wilderness and wondering how far sound might carry out here. Even if it carried far enough, there was no response, which was no great surprise – when had Elsa ever responded to her? And why would Anna even for a second believe that finding out Elsa's secret would change anything about Elsa herself?

Well, Elsa wasn't the only one who could be stubborn – Anna shouted her sister's name again, just because she could. Let Elsa know she wasn't going to lock herself away anymore, here or anywhere else. Anna was going to find her, set her straight, and they were both going back to Arendelle, even if it took them a week to find it. End of story.

The woods around her were changing – even without paying particular attention, she noticed it. The trees were a little sparser, gradually growing farther apart, and they were shorter and less uniform, twisted as if more frequently buffeted by high winds. The ground seemed more uneven here, rising and falling, and the snow was even deeper. Her horse struggled in drifts as high as the stirrups on his saddle; Anna had to pull her feet out and tuck her legs awkwardly back, or risk losing her shoes. Inadequate as they were, they were preferable to nothing at all.

Maybe she had still been traveling upwards, so gradually she hadn't actually noticed? The changes in scenery certainly looked like what she imagined would be up in the mountains, wilder and more primitive. And Elsa had been running towards the mountains.

And that might have made her feel more hopeful, except even a geography dunce like she had proved to be knew that mountains ringed Arendelle on three sides, and then covered the land beyond for... she wasn't sure how far, but a long way. Elsa could still be almost anywhere.

Anna paused briefly, letting her horse rest and trying to force herself to actually attempt to think rationally about her options, what she should do. It still seemed like the best idea – really, the only one she could come up with that didn't require a convenient miracle – was getting to a high enough point that she could see the land around her. It might not help her find Elsa, but she knew people lived and worked up in the mountains, and even if they also couldn't help her find her sister, they would know the way back to Arendelle. Maybe they would even let her sit in front of a fire for a few hours, thaw out a little bit.

For the first time since setting out, she thought of Hans' advice for finding people and about being careful when identifying herself – and about the bag he'd given her, with money and food in it. Would people expect to be paid before she asked them questions?

Anna's experience with money was very limited – never leaving the castle, of course she'd never had need of it. She remembered once, when very young, being first fascinated to see her father's profile on a handful of coins, then loudly indignant that her mother was on none. Elsa had laughed and tried to explain it to her, but it had still seemed unfair.

Now, Anna fumbled to open the clasp of the bag at her waist, suddenly, rashly hoping she would find Elsa's face within – if she was on the coins, she was the hereditary ruler. That was what she herself had said to Anna all those years ago, explaining who got to be on money and who did not. If she was there, she was the queen. She had to come back then. Had to. Anna would find her then, because she _had to come back_.

Anna's fingers were so cold and stiff they didn't want to close around anything, brushing against the bag's contents without grasping any of it; she made herself slow down, huffing with exasperation each time her hand blindly found something that clearly lacked the heft of what she wanted. Finally, _finally_, she pulled out a small muslin pouch, heavy and rough. She opened it almost feverishly, pouring out the entirety of its contents onto her skirt.

She looked at every coin, large and small, silver or copper, all of them worn at the edges, dropping them back into the pouch when she saw, again and again, the sharp, hauntingly familiar profile of her father. She knew coins for Elsa would only have been minted in the last few weeks. She knew that, but still couldn't suppress a feeling of desperation, of anxious regret, as the pile on her lap dwindled away to nothing. There were no new coins.

It was as if Elsa had ceased to exist – her kingdom frozen in time as in state, and the queen that was Elsa erased, banished from existence, a figment. Her only legacy winter, her only heir the stories that might be told of a kingdom that once was. She would be nothing but a fairy tale monster with which to frighten children.

Except Anna would not allow it – not now, not ever. She shoved the pouch back in the bag, closed the clasp, and urged her horse back to his slow, struggling walk through the snow. Determination had her again now, hot as anger. She would go, force herself on as long as it took, and wherever it took her. As long as and as far as it took to find her sister.


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Elsa ran. She was beyond thought, beyond comprehension, a being of fear and movement and desperate, blind need to survive, a hunted animal. She ran because there was nothing else she could do. Nowhere to go. Only flight.

But she was not a rabbit, designed to evade – she was weak, a creature locked away from exertion and outdoors and physical strain for over half her life. At some point, her limited strength finally gave out, and she fell. Hard.

It hurt. She felt the pull as her dress caught something, heard the sharp, angry rip of fabric, saw the world turn askew. She tumbled and curled and closed her eyes, vertiginous and confused. The ground was wet with snow, slick with an eternity of fallen leaves – they smelled acrid and spoiled – and roughened by stones, edges sharp as knives. They caught her hair, her skin, tearing and pulling, until her body acted of its own volition, protecting itself as it always did; the earth around her froze, ice growing and cradling her as she twisted in on herself.

She remained that way for a long time, longer than her fear wanted to allow, but she just couldn't go on, she absolutely couldn't. The panic that had pushed her this far remained, sharp and insistent, but she no longer had the energy to respond. Something inside her had finally broken.

At some point, she started to cry, the tears startlingly warm against her skin, and when realized, she let it overtake her. She curled tighter in her frozen nest, hugged her arms around her stomach, and sobbed miserably. And some little rational voice deep inside her being, the voice of an eight-year-old, frightened but still hopeful, was begging her to stop, but she shoved it roughly, angrily away. No more – she could do it no more.

It was never going to be the way that little girl had thought it would be. She knew that now. And she knew she shouldn't have allowed herself to hold onto an impossible hope for so long, fooling not only herself, but everyone else: her parents, Anna, Arendelle.

She wanted to fold in on herself until she disappeared. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to never have to get up again, lay until the ice and snow covered her like a blanket, a shroud – a coffin. Never to be found, safe in her frozen cocoon.

But this wouldn't be far enough. They would find her – maybe not for days or months or years, but she would be found. And monster or martyr, they would force her back, theirs forever. Born a prisoner, they would see to it that she died that way.

She craned her head up, turning to face the darkness and the falling snow, as if faces might already be gazing down at her, eagerly awaiting her rebirth. She could almost feel their impatient breath, falling like snowflakes against her cheeks. She could almost hear their excited murmurs, the echoes of her position: _the queen... Queen Elsa_.

"No," she moaned, to them or at them or into nothing, forcing the sound from her airless chest. "I can't. I can't do it. I can't... I can't be your queen."

But the invisible faces just leaned closer, straining to touch her, impatient for her voice, her words without meaning.

"Listen to me," she begged, trying to sit up, show them the hands that had caused so much damage, beseech them. "You have to. I'm dangerous. _Dangerous_. You have to listen. I can't... I can't..." Her voice trembled, faded.

She curled up again, covering her head with her hands. Waited for the voices, the breath, the invisible beings to leave her. She cried again, silently, the only warmth left in the world. The little girl was quiet now, maybe gone with the others, leaving her prostrate, corrupted, monstrous older self behind.

Good. That was good. For the best.

Even if Elsa already missed her so.

She wasn't safe. She felt calmer, here in the dark and quiet, calm enough that her mind was starting to clear. She wasn't sure she wanted it to, but she knew no way to prevent it. Already, she was losing memories of the last few hours – her run from the city and everything after, all of it carried away, as gossamer as the falling snow. It left her shaky, disoriented. She was still balled up and surrounded by ice, but she couldn't remember why until she tried to sit up and winced, feeling where she expected she would have several very colorful bruises in the near future. She'd scraped the skin – and the dark fabric of her stockings – from both knees, and had several nasty scratches on her right arm (and one painful one, inexplicably, on the back of her neck). But nothing seemed to be broken, and though she felt wobbly when she did it, she was able to stand.

What bothered her more than her injuries was the damage to her dress. Her mother's dress. It was torn at the skirt past Elsa's knees, and one of the sleeves, on the same side as the scratches on her arm, was gashed and tattered, almost separated from the neckline. Both the dress and her cloak were mud-stained, and the delicate coloring was spattered with water damage from her own snow and ice.

She pulled at the remains of the sleeve, trying to piece it back together, and for a moment was sure she was going to cry again – the guilt and sorrow at what she had done washed over her like a wave, threatening again to drown her in her own emotions. She had ruined something else. Her life, her parents' lives, the lives of everyone who worked or had worked in the castle; her coronation, the celebrations after, the excitement of all those people denied any pleasure at all for so long because of her – and now she had ruined this, too. Her mother had not said she could have the dress, had not bequeathed it to her. Elsa had taken it, without permission, and she had ruined it. Ruined it like she ruined everything.

Everyone must have lost their minds to allow her to be crowned queen – she might have frozen their very reason for all the sense it made. Just look at the mess she could make of herself, of something as simple to care for as a borrowed dress. And they had wanted to trust her with a _kingdom_?

She should have refused – the crowning, three years of regency, every bit of it. She should have told her father when he began teaching her how to rule; she should have insisted he go to Anna instead. But Elsa was selfish, greedy, conceited; she had allowed them, all of them, to believe she was something other than a monstrous burden that should have been destroyed years before. On the day she had hurt Anna, certainly, if not even earlier still, they should have been rid of her.

She stood now, alone in the darkness of that long night, snow falling around her, ice beneath her feet. If she hadn't been selfish enough to hide it, the winter she carried within herself, no one would have made the mistake of entrusting anything to her. All this had been caused by her own duplicity.

And now, she had to pay her penance. No one needed to impose it on her or make sure she understood the terms – those were her own. The rest of her life would be taken, and perhaps she would be somewhat nearer to recompense. And she knew going back to Arendelle was out of the question; the futility of that possibility swirled through the blizzard surrounding her. The greatest and only gift she could offer Arendelle was freedom. Freedom from her.

To do that, she had to go where they would not find her, where even the most stubborn royalist would not be able to reach her. She was already so tired that even standing, still and quiet, was difficult – but that also meant she knew that if she allowed herself to rest again, she would likely never get up. Only half aware, it had been almost more than she could manage to remain on her feet; she swayed and longed to sink. But weak and exhausted though she was, rest was going to have to wait.

Gingerly, she tried to force her legs to lift high enough to escape her nest of ice. They were reluctantly willing, but her skirt, despite the long tear, was not; stiff and narrow, it was designed to contour, not bend. She tried twisting it, one way and then another, but still could not find sufficient give. And she was afraid of tearing it further, making the damage worse.

"I'll fix it," she whispered. "I promise. I'll sew it up. Good as new."

In the end, she crawled out, ignoring the protests from her skinned knees, her bare hand that had scraped so brutally against the wall in the stairwell. She fell over the edge of the nest and to the ground, and she wanted desperately to allow herself to stay there for just a moment, soothing the heat of her shame and remorse in the snow. But she pushed herself up again, carefully, so carefully, and stood still just long enough to make sure she was not going to collapse.

She took several deep breaths, then continued on – walking now, but feeling a sense of newfound purpose that almost, not quite but almost, might be mistaken for anticipation. She found herself moving faster than she might have thought possible, and this movement she directed steadily upwards. Because if she wasn't going back to Arendelle, the only place left to go was into the mountains.

Her shoes effortlessly carried her across the surface of the snow that had fallen, sinking not in the slightest. That amazed her. She wished she could show somebody – alright, it was a useless talent, but how many years had it been since someone had told her she had done well at anything? How long since she had done anything that had not been set out for her in a series of carefully ordered steps, orchestrated from start to finish?

She watched her feet, hardly visible, skimmed them along deliberately, felt the first small tugs of a smile at the corners of her lips.

And with that, the spell broke.

There it had been again, the greedy creature begging for attention, praise, flattery – comfort. The beast that roared for acclamation she could not, could never possibly earn. She had no right to any of it.

Because if she did, there would be no snow to walk atop.

She tucked her hands under her crossed arms, the same gesture she had turned to since childhood when faced with a fear she could not escape. Most often, of course, the fear was of herself. But now? She really wasn't so sure. Something was breaking apart, crumbling away inside her, but she couldn't yet tell if whatever remained would be wonderful or terrible – if she should fear it or embrace it. She could feel it, but the darkness still hid it from her sight, leaving her skittish and uncertain.

And what would happen when she _could_ see it? Or would it devour her before then, its intentions made meaningless by its hunger for freedom? Blank eyes like the people of Arendelle, the sharp teeth of a predator, tearing its way out of her...

She shuddered and hugged her arms more tightly against herself, hunching again against invisible enemies, which seemed not to care if they destroyed her from inside or out. The confidence, that sweet, fleeting moment, was banished in the storm; she stumbled on only because her feet were already moving. She was crying again, but wasn't sure when the tears had begun. Had they ever stopped?

She realized with another violent shiver – why, why would her frigid body even do that, mocking the pain she caused others? - that she might well be in the midst of losing her mind. Was this what it felt like?

When she was very small, Anna hardly more than a baby, Elsa had been watching from the first turn of the staircase as two of the guards sat in the entrance hall with nothing much to do, debating whether they would be reprimanded for playing cards. Elsa remembered it all very vividly – their sharp uniforms, the light from the windows reflecting off their polished boots, the hands that shuffled and reshuffled the worn cards – because she was so excited: not at anything they were doing, just that they couldn't see her but she could see them. She was the little invisible creature on the stairs.

When the front doors flew open with an angry bang, she jumped just as the guards did, almost tumbling down the steps and gripping ice beneath the hands that flew out to catch herself. But bolder then, she ignored it and leaned forward to see what excitement was now unfolding below.

She was young. There was no fear.

Not at first.

More guards, dressed warmly; it was winter outside. They came in dragging a man between them, but he was not dressed for the cold, his thin, gray body hardly covered by the ragged remains of a long shirt. His feet were bare, his toes blackened, and he had matted hair long enough to hang into his face. And he _stank_ – a smell that made Elsa think of a midden heap with old fish dumped in it. She covered her nose with her hands and breathed through her fingers, but it didn't help much.

The smelly man was hanging from the hands that held him, looking mostly asleep, but the guards appeared nervous, and their grip was tight. The ones who had been discussing card playing had snapped to attention.

"Get the captain," an outside guard said, and one of the inside ones disappeared into the lower depths of the castle. That was fortunate for Elsa, because if he'd gone up, he would have found her and probably sent her away.

The remaining inside guard loosened his sword in its scabbard, kept his hand on the hilt. All of the guards were staring at the smelly man as if he might suddenly attack, though to Elsa he still looked more inclined to have a nap. They didn't talk, they all just watched until the captain of the guards came in.

And he wasn't alone – Elsa's father was with him. But the king hung back, letting his captain take the lead as the others who could quickly saluted. The one holding the smelly man with his right hand did not – something Elsa had never seen one of them refrain from doing if her father entered the room. She pressed her face against a gap in the banister, eager for whatever was going to happen.

"What's happened?" the captain asked. "Who's this man?"

The smelly man moved, tried to lift his head, blinked blearily, gave up the effort and again went limp.

"He was trying to climb the walls," one of the outside guards said, "carrying this." With his free hand, he pulled from his pocket a little tool that Elsa could not identify – it had a wooden handle and a head that looked like a hammer, but with sharp points at both ends.

She didn't know what it was, but she heard the captain's sharp intake of breath. "Did he say why?"

"Yes, sir. He was raving about -"

The smelly man's head jerked up, looking right at the king. Elsa jumped again. The man's eyes were sharp and glittery, like dark gemstones. He had been drooling on himself; his chin glinted wetly in the light through the window. The way he looked made Elsa feel afraid, for herself and for her father. The ice was back beneath her hands, but that was all, then – her magic as immature as she was.

"You," the smelly man said, a croak, and more saliva dribbled from his mouth, landing on the polished floor. "_You_. Father of corruption, of the progeny of death and decay and rot. Cut it away. Cut it away before it grows..." He made a wet slobbering sound, let his head drop to wipe his mouth on his tattered sleeve. "_Rot_."

Her father's face was hard. "I know why you came here. Do you think you're the first? It's a myth."

"No," the man said. "No, no, _no_. I dreamed. Dreamed of the corruption. The pure white, hiding the decay inside. You know. _You know you are responsible_. I have it, too, inside me, the _corruption_. I can see lies, see truths! So I can stop it. Stop it..."

Then her father asked a strange question: "Who sent you?"

The smelly man smiled. "The beacon. The heart of decay and darkness. The one who shows the way. The one who-"

The king cut him off, his voice sharp. "I have no desire to speak of this any further." He turned to the captain of the guards. "Do what you need to do to make sure no one else knows of this."

The captain saluted. "Yes, your majesty."

The smelly man started to laugh – high-pitched and frantic. "But it already knows, _your majesty_. It sees, it _feeds_ on the desire it feels – for cold, for death!" And he turned, suddenly, his toothless mouth agape. "It must be stopped. All of them stopped. _Before it is too late_."

His glittery eyes met Elsa's. She gasped. Jerked back on the stairs. The ice spread.

There was tumult below, but all she could see was the smelly man, his eyes, his mouth. Until her father spoke, a single word:

"_Elsa_."

She turned to him, and the expression on his face she could not understand, but it made her feel afraid and confused and breathless.

That was all. Simply her name.

Then her father came for her, scooped her up, carried her up the stairs though she was much too big. She had her arms around his neck, and over his shoulder she caught a final glimpse of the smelly man. He was still staring back at her, even as the guards dragged him away.

How many years had it been since she'd thought of that day? It must have been most of her lifetime. She had asked her father, sitting on the edge of her bed where he had placed her, why the man had tried to come over the wall.

"Sometimes, things go wrong in people's minds," the king said, "and they may not understand what they're doing."

"Why did he look at me like that?"

Her father hesitated. "He... he was probably confused. He was afraid."

Now, so many years later, Elsa had lost the rest of the conversation, any conclusions she might have reached then. But that was losing your mind – she had seen what it meant. But why had she never tried to find out more? She should have known it might happen to her. Unstable and dangerous, she should have seen the precipice. Maybe then she would not have fallen so hard, so fast.

And what the man had said - decay, corruption, blackness – mad or not, the man had been right about her. She had never realized before. Never thought of the conversation again. Never dreamed of it, feared it, dwelled on it. Her father had been there, and he said it was nothing to worry about. And she had been a child. That had been enough.

But people had known; the man had clearly known, _something_ at least, and so others would have. Her parents might have dismissed aloud what others said as myths and fairy tales, but after Anna was hurt, they must have come to believe it too, that Elsa was the harbinger, spoken of in garbled stories and the oldest chronicles. Had they? And did they think she would never find out?

But if that were so, why had she been allowed to inherit?

None of it made any sense.

Because she was losing her mind?

No. _No_.

There had to be explanations that made sense. She was just too tired and scared and overwhelmed to think of them. She just had to get away – get to where none of this madness, however intrinsic and permanent it might be, could hurt anyone else. She had no desire to climb walls to get to anyone. She wanted walls to stay safely inside.

The pink of dawn had appeared, limning the craggy outlines of Arendelle's surroundings. She stumbled and stared – some part of her had believed she could never possibly see daylight again. That she never deserved to. Yet here it was. She had not been so close to these mountains since...

She stilled, let her arms drop to her sides. Snow still fell around her, but perhaps not so heavily now. Inside her, the last of something crumbled away, her secret exposed. She stared up at the North Mountain. Remembered its secrets too, the things hidden from Arendelle, the glimpses it had offered her of harsh, rugged beauty. Her own secret longed for it.

And her secret was not a thing come to devour her, not a monster, not an insatiable creature of lust and decay.

It was _Elsa_.

The realization hit her hard, hit her with wonder and amazement and another shudder that passed through her body, breaking past the agony and into the very core of her soul.

It was who she might have been, every hope and dream that could never be hers, all the days she had looked through her window and longed for everything she saw, every quashed opportunity to shed the skin that had been forced upon her, so tight it left her breathless. It was her torn clothes and skinned knees. It was running with bare feet and bare hands, her hair loose and uncombed, running with nowhere to go but just because she _could_. It was staying up past her bedtime, sneaking to the kitchens for sweets, tracking mud on the floors, jumping up and down, turning cartwheels. It was screaming and laughing and singing and _feeling_, feeling pain and euphoria and anger and bliss and sorrow and fear and joy. It was everything she might have been.

Not a monster.

Not a curse.

Not a queen.

_Elsa_.

* * *

**I don't usually end with author's notes, but I feel the need to here. This has been one of the hardest chapters for me to write - not only is it attempting to go with Elsa through a very dark, frightening, labyrinthine place, it is also trying to set up some things that will became more important later. So any questions you might have about anything that turns up from here on out that doesn't appear to be addressed in this particular story - well, you're welcome to ask me about it, of course you are, I'm always up for a chat; but if you just feel dissatisfied and that answers have not been given, fear not, they're probably to be answered in the stories yet to come. **

**But I think it is also important to ask of you, my reader, that you don't necessarily accept everything Elsa has thought, felt, remembered, or experienced in this chapter. Mentally, she is in an incredibly fragile state, and that can distort the lenses of her own perceptions of herself and what is going on around her. Hopefully, that disorientation she is experiencing is apparent. As I said before, this was incredibly hard to write - the only part that was comparable was writing the part where she found out about her parents' deaths, and that was not nearly as long or involved as this chapter. If I have created in you in a similar mindset, then I have achieved my goals - but I also hope that at the end, you felt something of her own release and exultation. She has come past the pinnacle, the point where she might have turned further into her own darkness or allowed herself to try to escape back into the light. She has chosen the latter, but as anyone who has been down a similar path knows, getting back is not as simple as retracing your steps... **

**But hope still exists. To paraphrase, hope is a thing in ballgown and slippers, about to take a tumble. And what will she tumble into? **

**I'm sure you know. **

**Until then, as always, _tusen takk_.  
**


	18. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

She and her horse were definitely now traveling upward, but Anna still had found no vantage point from which to look for people, much less found people themselves. The trees had thinned out considerably, but the blizzard must have been even worse here, the snow deeper, branches and trunks bent and snapped under wind and weight. She told herself not to get her hopes up that that meant Elsa might have come this way.

With the clarity of day, the whole situation with Elsa, last night and further back to Anna's earliest, fuzziest memories, seemed less and less possible, more and more like the dreams she awoke from sure she'd somehow been transported into a story. Because despite the evidence all around her, even within her shivering body, it seemed impossible. Not just that, a whole cascade of impossibilities: that yesterday had been the height of summer. That it was snowing in July. That it was cold enough for the snow to remain. And most of all, that everything had somehow been caused by Elsa.

Her sister Elsa – someone Anna had known for every single day of her life. She could somehow make this happen, ice and snow and wind, even in July, and nevermind that she could do it at all, _how_ could she do it? People couldn't just wave their hands and make it snow. But Elsa had. Anna had seen her.

The word that came to mind was "magic." But magic was the stuff of folktales, stories for children, a way to pass the time at home on endless winter nights. The kind of thing Anna had been told to stop believing in around the same time she had started to doubt – just a little bit – that there were trolls under her bed or that her toys might come to life at night. And again, her mind returned to who might have known about Elsa – likely the very same people who had told Anna magic did not exist.

But if not magic, then what? Surely, if it was something anyone could learn to do, she would have at least heard of it before, even if she had never learned to do it herself. Like cooking – she had no idea how to cook, but she knew _about_ cooking. And if it was something to be learned, it seemed unlikely Elsa would have done so; and if she had, when had Elsa learned anything she didn't then work at until she was inhumanly perfect at it? Anna's tutors had hung that over her like a guillotine many times, when she was daydreaming or doodling or had scribbled out something in the hour before it was meant to be handed over. Elsa apparently never did any of those things. If she'd learned some kind of snow powers, she would have learned snow powers to perfection.

Anna was pretty certain her parents had not been able to conjure up blizzards, and she _knew_ she couldn't, especially if it happened when she got upset – she'd been just as mad as Elsa last night, and probably almost as scared, but she wasn't throwing out ice everywhere. She thought she would have found out if her parents could do it, though she wasn't as certain as she might have been if she hadn't realized they had kept Elsa's secret from her. But she'd seen a lot more of them than Elsa, so it would have been harder to hide. And she'd studied the history of her family, both sides, and there was nothing about conjuring winter there either. So it wasn't something that might run down through the family lines, like her accursed freckles.

Which really seemed to leave magic as the only explanation – not a reasonable one, certainly, but the only thing she could come up with that she didn't immediately think of reasons to dismiss. Elsa, her sister Elsa, had magic powers.

When she got home, Anna was going to check _very_ carefully under her bed for trolls.

It seemed like this – Elsa having magic powers, not trolls under her bed – was something she was just going to have to get used to. And at least it did explain _some_ of Elsa's strange inclinations, like locking herself in her room all the time. But why had that happened when it did? As well as Anna could remember, which wasn't very well admittedly, it had been around her fifth birthday, so Elsa would have been eight. Before then, she had been fine, she had been Anna's best friend, the person she loved most in the whole world, the person she most wanted to _be_. And yes, Anna had been young then, but she could remember no signs of magic, something that seemed kind of unlikely to be forgotten completely. She also remembered seeing Elsa angry, scared, sad – but still no magic.

The only explanation she could come up with was that maybe the magic hadn't started until Elsa was eight, and that was why everything changed so abruptly. It would explain so much – except why it had been kept a secret. Maybe Anna hadn't been old enough at five, but what about ten, 15, anytime before last night? She was an adult now, old enough to leave home, be married.

Married.

She realized Hans had hardly crossed her mind since she set out from the city; she'd been too preoccupied to think about anything but Elsa. (Well, Elsa and how cold and lost she was.) She hoped everything was okay in Arendelle. Hans could handle it, she knew he could, but it would still be nice to know what was going on.

Or, of course, to know where Arendelle was. She was into rugged, rocky territory, standing stones tall enough to peek up through the snow, the trees all pine. The sun was high in a cloudless sky of perfect blue, and it should have warmed her – she could almost pretend it did. But the ache from the cold had penetrated so deeply she could feel it in her teeth.

If Elsa had magic powers, maybe she could spend some time working on conjuring fire. That would be a much more useful ability. She'd be the most popular person in Arendelle come November. Who ever asked for ice?

Anna's horse was clearly feeling the effects of the weather too – every step up and out of the snow was an effort, and he was stumbling on hidden rocks and tree limbs and whatever else was buried and invisible and uneven. They were going to have to rest soon, but she was scared to do it here. And besides that, she wasn't sure she could dismount on her own, her muscles were so seized up with the cold.

So they plodded on, because she couldn't think of anything else to do, still struggling upwards, making slow, steady progress. And the same thoughts circled through her head, adamant and inexorable – of Elsa, of magic, of secrets. Around and around, and never reaching any new conclusions.

She probably wasn't paying enough attention, lulled by the slow, heavy pace and preoccupied with her own mental and physical discomfort. It was hard to say; she didn't actually see it happen. She just felt the abrupt give beneath her, heard the surprised snort of the horse, and then came the hard whack to her left side.

She went flying, landing before she'd even had time to register this new source of pain. She sank up to her knees in snow and her momentum sent the rest of her flopping against the hard crust, knocking the breath from her in a single, surprised whoosh. For a moment, she just lay like that, half-submerged and stunned.

There was movement in her peripheral vision – the panicked horse, who had apparently found a second wind without her weight on his back, running as fast as the deep snow allowed. She lifted her head and tried to call after him, but couldn't so much as gasp. So she had little choice: she watched him go and waited for the painful tightness in her chest to ease.

Unfortunately, that was the only pain that did. To add to the muscular ache from trembling for the last several hours, her left side from shoulder to hip burned so fiercely she had to grit her teeth against it, her eyes watering. Slowly, carefully, she looked to see what had hit her – a tree, a remarkably small one for how much of her it had managed to hit. It must have been bent from the wind and snow, buried until the horse had stepped on it, shifting it and sending it flying back at them.

Just as carefully, she turned to look at where she'd been struck. It still hurt, but she could see no visible damage, and she was able to lift her arm, which she hoped meant nothing was broken. She took several breaths, steeling herself, then pushed up and out of the snow, trying to keep as much of her weight as she could on her right arm. For several moments, she stayed on her hands and knees, breathing deeply, until her bare fingers protested so much that she stood and crossed her arms tightly to try to warm them. She wasn't particularly surprised when it didn't help much.

Now what was she going to do? She definitely wasn't going to be able to make it back to Arendelle on foot, even if she knew the way, which she didn't. The way to Elsa was still as lost to her as it had been when she started. The only option, then, was to continue as she had been going before – moving to higher ground, and hoping she would eventually find a way to people who could help her.

But even that, she very quickly found, was going to be next to impossible. The snow was deep but still soft and wet, and she sank into it almost halfway up her legs with every step, which meant she had to lurch and jerk to move at all. And with her dress down, dragging and pulling, she couldn't manage even that, so she had to hold it up almost to waist level. Her cloak flapped behind her, exposing her bare arms to the frigid air, but of course she couldn't hold it shut because she was holding her skirt instead, and her useless stockings soaked right through, as did the hems of her petticoats. It wasn't long before she couldn't feel her feet at all – she didn't know much about frostbite symptoms, but she knew this kind of numbness on a day this cold was not a good sign.

But what choice did she have except to keep going as long as she could? Nobody was going to show up out of nowhere with a fire and news of Elsa's whereabouts, so her options were to sit down and wait to freeze to death, or keep going.

She kept going.

More than once, she lost her balance or misjudged her step, and wound up falling face first into the snow. She stopped frequently to catch her breath and make sure she hadn't lost her shoes, and each time it was harder to get going again. Her energy was flagging, a combination of unaccustomed exertion, lack of sleep, lack of food. There was food in her bag, still tied securely at her waist, but she would have to stop to get it out – and she feared her fingers wouldn't be able to manage the clasp. They hurt most of all.

She wasn't going to be able to go much further, couldn't work up the energy even to try to convince herself. She stumbled now at every step, and her skirt was dragging again, too heavy to hold up. She saw white, only white, a world of white, reflecting dizzily inside her head. She had no idea what direction she was going – nor did she much care. She was too tired: too tired to think, too tired to worry, too tired to go on.

Finally, a broken step turned into a tumble.

* * *

To add insult to this impressive injury of a day, Kristoff's money was gone. His money, and all the money he owed to the harvesters up in the mountains, too. That galled him more than anything, losing something that wasn't his, knowing how hard those men worked and how many of them had families. He had let them down.

He had realized the money bag was gone while clearing snow off the sled, after finally getting the frozen wheels off. Everything had to be dug out, taken off while he cleared the accumulation, then tied back into place. And as he always did, he mentally inventoried to make sure he wasn't leaving anything behind. That was when he noticed the absence, but at first assumed it was just in one of the bigger bags, or maybe had gotten tangled up with one of the tarps. He went through everything again – but still no sign of it.

He searched the area, sweeping a much broader circle than he had actually been in and digging through the snow anywhere it could possibly have fallen: around the sled, his shelter, the path he had made between them. But there was nothing.

And he couldn't keep looking forever – he needed to head out. What he had seen going up the North Mountain – he had to know what it was, what he could do about it. It was a threat to his livelihood, the livelihoods of the men he worked with, and so he was going to find it. He suspected magic was involved; maybe not the kind of magic he was used to, but it still seemed too similar to doubt. What else could make a storm behave like the one he had just experienced? The nice thing about magic was that it could, in his limited experience, usually be stopped. Not by him, of course, but he knew people.

So his plan had been to go up, see if he could figure out what was going on, and seek help if necessary, ask his friends what to do. But to do that, he would need equipment to get up the mountain, since his own stuff was at home – a trip that, in these conditions, would take several days. Several days he wasn't willing to waste.

Which brought him back to the money, as he _had_ had enough to buy what he needed, from one of the supply posts scattered around the mountains. Now, he would just have to hope what he had in his pockets would be enough, or that he could cajole his way to credit. Oaken might be good for it – Kristoff had never had problems with him before, though he had also never asked for special considerations. It seemed worth a try, anyway.

So he finally hooked Sven up and rode out, heading northwest and generally cursing his miserable luck. Someone must have seen him put the bag on the back of the sled when he was in the city, and that someone had taken advantage of Kristoff's slow pace and inability to watch his things as well as where he was going. People in Arendelle hadn't been willing to offer so much as crumbs when he was a starving child, and now they stole from him.

And to think he'd been asked why he didn't want to be around them.

Out of nowhere, thoughts of money were driven from his head – coming around a bend, he caught sight of someone several yards above him, walking near the ridge line through the trees, and for a moment was sure he was hallucinating. Because it appeared to be a girl – or possibly a rather scrawny young woman – trying to force her way on foot through the snow. She was wearing a clearly inadequate cloak and a... gown, of some sort? He guessed that was the word for it. Bare hands, bare head, and she was sunk almost to waist level in the snow. She was bent double against the wind, clearly struggling mightily.

And he might have said this day couldn't possibly get any stranger.

His first inclination was to turn around, find another way up into the mountains, and pretend he had never seen her. He'd had some experience with upper class women – he guessed from the dress and clear lack of any common sense that this one fell into that category – and mountains, and had sworn off the combination for good. Even if he hadn't, this particular situation was clearly trouble. He could think of absolutely no reason why someone like her would be somewhere like here that would _not_ mean trouble.

But then she fell, and it didn't matter how much trouble she would be, he knew he wasn't going to turn away and leave her. She didn't even try to catch herself, just went over and over down the incline, landing hard in a trickling excuse for a creek. She moved feebly, trying to raise her arms, her head, but quickly gave up and fell back into the water.

Kristoff sighed. "_Great_. Just great."

He pulled Sven to a stop, vaulted from the sled, and slid on his feet down the incline; it was faster than running. He knelt beside the creek – it was mostly frozen, but the girl had hit hard enough to break the ice. He didn't want to think about how much that must have hurt.

Her eyes were open – they found his, and widened. She struggled again to sit up, opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to have the strength for neither. When she accepted this, she did something strange – shrugged one shoulder up and gave him a little half-smile: _What can you do_?

"Don't try to move, don't try to talk," Kristoff said, only to realize how threatening that might sound to someone in her position. "I mean – I know where we can go to get you warm. Okay?"

She nodded. She was still staring. He really wanted her to blink. What were the signs of a brain injury? Was not blinking one?

Now wasn't the time to think about it. "Can I pick you up?"

Another nod – and then she did close her eyes, finally, and kept them closed, and sighed with an expression that clearly spoke of relief.

For a moment, he wavered, trying to figure out how to most appropriately lift up someone who was not only several social classes above him, but also female. There wasn't time to think about that, he knew – soaking wet in freezing temperatures, her window of safety would be measured in minutes. So he put his hands under her arms to haul her out of the water, then moved one hand under her knees and lifted her, coming to his feet in the same motion. Even in waterlogged clothes, she seemed to weigh almost nothing at all.

He got her back up the hill, onto the bench in his sled, then grabbed his bedroll from the back. He took the cloak off her and knew he really needed to get all her wet clothes off, but there were limits to how much he was willing to risk himself – he didn't even want to imagine what would happen if whoever was supposed to be looking after her came back and found her in Kristoff's sled, and Kristoff himself stripping her bare. So he left the rest alone, and wrapped the bedroll around her.

He got Sven going, much faster now, but that was fine – it was easier, in his experience, to move quickly over snow than bare ground. This was his territory, his expertise, and Sven's as well. It wasn't even the first time he'd hauled someone injured; accidents out on the ice were common and nasty, and whichever sled was nearest would be the one used, no questions asked. He knew to move fast, to seek the closest safe point rather than necessarily the most optimal, and to keep as close an eye on the injured as on the way before him. And he knew the signs of hypothermia – and when those became signs of imminent death.

The girl – woman – whatever-she-was was shivering and her teeth were chattering and she was trying to wrap herself more tightly in the bedroll, and all of those were good signs: her body was still strong enough to try to protect her. She might make it. Considering what she was wearing and the size of her, that would impress him – stronger than she looked.

He estimated they were about 20 minutes out from Oaken's, and he knew of no place closer, so that's where they went. She would just have to keep breathing for that long, and then he could pass her off to someone who could get her back to wherever she belonged, and _he_ could move on with his life, slightly more eager now to get up the North Mountain just because that trip couldn't possibly be any stranger than the last day had been.

Oaken's was one of the last vestiges of civilization before real wilderness took over – a description that could also be applied to the man himself – a combination of trading post, inn, and armory, a place to get the last few necessities that might mean the difference between life and death any further to the north. Kristoff, and most of the men he worked with, relied on such places in winter, when travel back to the city might take days, but trade of this sort was lighter in summer, and some of them shut down completely in the warmer months. If Oaken's was one of those, Kristoff wasn't sure what he would do.

Fortunately, he didn't have to find out – he could see the smoke from a fireplace rising above the trees as they approached the clearing. "Almost there," he said to the girl.

She opened her eyes to a squint, smiled that half-smile again. "Sounds good," she said, the first words she had spoken to him, and at hardly more than a whisper. "Thanks." She closed her eyes again and snuggled deeper into his bedroll, leading him to wonder if she might be in shock. Because otherwise, she was much too trusting to be real – he knew he went to the opposite extreme, but surely even those who were inclined to trust wouldn't be so completely comfortable being at the mercy of someone who appeared out of nowhere in the woods? It had to be shock, or she really did have some kind of brain injury.

Well, it wouldn't be his problem for much longer. He slowed Sven to a stop, said, "I'll be right back" to his passenger – she nodded, but kept her eyes closed – and went to the door. The sign was up, but the door was locked; he knocked, and when there was no response, banged with his fist. Someone had started that fire in there.

Finally, just as he raised his fist again, he heard the lock being turned. The door opened no more than an inch. "Whatever you need, I don't have it. I'm stocked for summer, and I'm closed."

"I have someone who needs help."

"What do you want me to do?"

"She just needs a place to warm up and a change of clothes."

There was a long pause, then a sigh. "You better be able to pay for it." And Oaken walked away, leaving the door to swing open.

Kristoff thought about the handful of coins in his pockets – he'd have to hope it was enough. He went and got the girl out of the sled, took her up the steps and inside the ramshackle little store. Oaken was digging through a trunk that looked like it contained more clothes than Kristoff had owned in his entire life; he nodded them towards a doorway in the back, apparently not in the least concerned that a man much like himself had just appeared at his door with a half-conscious city girl in his arms: "Hearth's through there."

The back room was a lot like Kristoff's own home, a rudimentary place designed for sleep and holding warmth and not much else. But there was an old wooden chair near the fire, and he put the girl there; she stirred and fortunately sat on her own and smiled at him gratefully.

"Thanks," she said again.

"It's nothing."

And he left her.

"This is all I've got," Oaken said. He had a stack of things, and though Kristoff knew nothing about what kinds of clothes women needed, at least what was being presented was clearly warmer than what she had on now. He nodded, and went to find the things he needed.

The place was amazingly disorganized; usually, he just came for food. It took awhile, but he dug out a coil of rope from behind a pile of fishing nets, and found a pickaxe, smaller than he would have liked but useable, in a dark corner of a cabinet. That would have to do – he wanted to be gone before it got any later.

He took the rope and axe to the counter, added them to the pile of clothing. Oaken had also found a pair of women's boots.

Oaken looked through everything twice, lips moving as he counted in his head. "Sixty skilling," he said.

Mentally, Kristoff winced. He dug into his pockets, pushing his hands as deep as they would go, and pulled out a meager handful of coins. As Oaken had done, he counted twice, making sure none had miraculously appeared. They hadn't. "I only have thirty-five."

He had hoped for credit, but could see from Oaken's expression it wouldn't even be worth asking. "That will buy the clothes," Oaken said. "And I'm throwing in the hat for free if I do it."

So Kristoff could get the clothes – or he could buy his supplies. But he had no idea if the girl had any money. Not that she was his problem if she didn't, except he had brought her here. What if someone was looking for her, and now couldn't find her?

But that didn't matter – she would have been dead within the hour after falling into that water. He had saved her life. He owed her nothing else.

He looked at the things on the counter. The money was cold in his hand.

When he turned to leave, transaction done, he saw that she was standing in the doorway, watching them. She still had his bedroll wrapped around her. He would need to replace it – one more tally to add up.

The girl gave him another smile.

He nodded at her, and left quickly. Before she could say anything.

It was time to head on – already, the day was halfway over. And without his bedroll, he would have to be more careful about his time, make sure he could get to sheltered places to sleep, preferably barns or stables. And those were few and far between in the extreme north of the kingdom.

He checked the reins and his belongings, as he always did, and fed Sven from the feedbag, since he was out of anything fresh. Then he climbed up onto the seat. The girl's wet cloak was still in a heap on the floor of the sled.

"Wait!"

He turned to look, and wished he hadn't. The girl was leaping the steps down from the store, almost sending herself headfirst into the snow again, and trying with all her might to run to catch him.

Definitely stronger than she looked. And _definitely_ trouble.

She had on the new clothes – dress, woolen cloak and hat, mittens, boots. She had plaited her hair into two long braids, which flew behind her as she ran. She had a bag strapped over her shoulder and another tied around her waist.

Reaching the sled, she had to lean on it to catch her breath, panting. "Sorry," she finally managed to say. "I'm... kind of... tired."

He didn't answer. The moment was feeling distinctly ominous.

She must have sensed the same, because she stood up straighter. "I need someone to take me into the mountains. "

"Why in the world would you want to go there?"

"I'm... looking for someone."

She was being cagey. He didn't like it. "Do you have any idea what's going on up there right now? That's where all this crazy weather came from. There's nothing up there you want to mess with."

Inexplicably, her face lit up. "You know where the snow's coming from?"

He didn't want to answer her. He didn't want to see her. He should have turned the sled around. But what he said was, "Yeah – the North Mountain."

"I need you to take me there."

"I don't take people places."

She pulled off the bag hanging from her shoulder, dumped it on the seat beside him with a surprisingly loud thud, then crossed her arms and waited.

He let his gaze linger on her for a moment, but she didn't back down, didn't waver. He looked in the bag: pickaxe. Rope. Food – dried meat, bread, apples, carrots. He looked back up at her.

"Please," she said.


	19. Chapter 17

**A few words: first, this is likely the last update for some time (possibly the better part of this month). February isn't going to be great for me, free-time wise, so I'm really sorry if you don't get anything else for awhile. I'll do what I can, but I'm making no promises! Trust me, I'm as eager as you are to get on with it. If you want to chat or have questions or whatever in the meantime, always feel free to PM. It may take me awhile to respond, but I will, I promise!  
**

**Also, and more directly pertinent to what you are about to read - regarding the advisors I've set up for Elsa: rather than going directly with a model of government from one country or another in Europe around 1840, I picked and chose what positions I wanted to have be prominent in Arendelle, based on contemporary history/politics, but certainly liberally interpreting and editing positions from several different places to suit my needs. So it is intended to be a unique construction, with what to anyone who has studied history might seem to be a strange mixture of titles and names and duties, and I hope it at least somewhat comes across as believable. I do think Arendelle, by the point in time of the movie, would have had a parliamentary system of some sort, but I believe it might not have reached the point that similar systems had elsewhere, with more power given over to the commons. I wanted a monarchy that retained significant strength. Certainly, this is entirely my own idea and construction, so you're welcome to disagree with how I've done it. Of course, ****_someone_**** must have been "officially" in charge until Elsa's coronation, and since no regent was mentioned, a regency council made more sense to me; people who would have served her father before her and would continue to serve her after her crowning. **

**This may not be everyone's favorite chapter - I've gotten some complaints about the Hans chapters, so I apologize to those who enjoy them less than the more adventurous exploits of Anna, Kristoff's inner comedian, or Elsa's ruminations. We'll get back to them as soon as we can! Until then, I hope you can at least bear with me, and enjoy the break from turmoil and self-recriminations and doubt. **

**And now, from external cold to a more internal sort...  
**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

By midmorning, Hans finally felt that things were going as well as could be expected, if not better. Though Gunnar was apparently still working on the list of castle staff and visitors, Per had been – only slightly begrudgingly – willing to provide a guest list for the coronation as well as a list of Elsa's advisors. The queen's clerk, a fussy little man named Erik, Hans had charged with writing and ensuring delivery of letters to each of those advisors, ordering them to a luncheon meeting. He needed to know both with whom he was dealing and what each of them might offer. Immediately after, he would have a meeting with the heads of household staff.

With those orders out, he decided it was time to get to know the castle itself a bit better. After all, considering how spacious it was for such a small family, it would make no sense for Anna and himself to leave it for the Southern Isles, where hallways were always filled to bursting with brothers and wives and children, half of whom didn't even live there but seemed always to be visiting, just adding to the chaos and commotion. Arendelle's castle, by contrast, was hushed and still, perfect for working and thinking. Hans had plans to do plenty of both, and to do them here. He would need to know the place well.

He debated asking someone to show him around, but ultimately decided against it – some of the places he wished to explore might lead to awkward questions, or outright refusal of admittance, despite his intentions. It could at times be quite difficult to assure someone that what was being done was for his own good, or for the good of everyone. Arendelle deserved the truth about its royal family, whatever that truth might ultimately be, but those who had been paid for their loyalty for so many years might be understandably resistant. So it was perhaps best that they not know – not yet.

He changed clothes before going out, adopting the more militaristic look his father preferred over the formalwear of the night before. Besides the appearance of leadership potential it conveyed, it was also warmer; he suspected the corridors would be quite chilly. Though also unlike home, someone in recent years had clearly done extensive renovations here, modernizing and improving, leaving the place as a whole relatively comfortable and draft-free.

The castle that his family called "home" really wasn't; it was still built around the medieval defense post it had once been, a large hall and little else, with few comforts and no privacy. So there was a summer home, and a winter home, and two retreats, and none of them had ever felt like the place he really belonged, because there was always another move looming, another season, or he was being sent to stay with this brother or with that one. No one ever asked where he wanted to go. So from one place to another, castle to house to lodge and around again, he went whether he wanted to or not.

In tiny Arendelle, this was where the royal family lived, just here, and while he questioned many of the decisions this family had made in recent years, he had to admit that someone at some point had had impeccable taste in design and décor. There were so many windows and bright colors and lovely decorations and accoutrements, most of it at just a level of cheerful invitation and warmth without crossing the thin line towards gaudy and ostentatious. There were imperfections too, of course, many of them presumably the result of such a reduced staff: there were unfortunate marks of scoring on many of the wooden floors, for instance, and the loveseats in the portrait room had mysteriously sprung cushions. On the whole, however, he was most impressed.

He didn't bother with the basement levels, where there would probably be kitchens and the scullery and laundry and, further down, the dungeons – nothing, for the moment, of particular interest. So he began by walking from his ground-floor room, one of a handful tucked into the end of the central wing, back towards the ballroom, because he knew where it was and could construct a mental map from that point. There was what appeared to be a small parlor or receiving room off of it as well as the queen's council chambers, neither of which held anything surprising. He avoided actually entering the ballroom, knowing already what was inside and not wishing to get caught in conversation with those now rooming within.

The castle was split into three areas, likely the oldest part at the center and modern wings built to either side, all of them bordering the extensive courtyards. On the ground floor, the west wing was almost entirely taken up by the ballroom, the east wing by the formal dining hall, with the entrance hall between them. Behind the entrance hall and the grand staircase were additional rooms likely intended to be open to castle visitors – a large library Hans made mental note to explore in greater detail later; a music room; a parlor; a larger drawing room with French doors that opened to a small, enclosed yard with benches, flower gardens, a pond, though all were of course now covered in the snow and ice. His bedroom was back there as well, as were a number of other guest rooms; he was pleased to find his was the largest and most nicely ornamented.

He ran into no one on the ground floor, but was not so lucky on the second – this appeared to be where visiting dignitaries had been placed, and many were now up and unhappy with the whole of the situation in Arendelle, despite the attempts Hans had made to keep them in their accustomed comfort. After his fifth or sixth conversation involving identical reassurances – he was meeting with the queen's advisors over lunch; he would of course let them know if either the queen or princess returned; the situation was being managed, and he would speak to the whole of the kingdom again very soon – he was feeling traces of irritation. Several more of the same, and it took all his years of training to keep his expression neutral, his voice soothing. Every man here was apparently so convinced of his own importance that he thought it appropriate to take what little time Hans had to ask the same questions again and again, instead of letting him go about the business of trying to run a kingdom.

As quickly as he could, he escaped to the hush of the third floor, choosing to believe the rest of the second was also bedrooms, and also full, and also uninteresting. Besides the quiet, the third floor was significantly smaller, and in many places the ceilings and walls tucked awkwardly, directly under the lower roofs. He made his way back to the royal quarters – and found them locked. The same was true of every other door he tried. He should have been mildly annoyed at the inconvenience and evidence of distrust, but instead, standing before the final door on the west side of the castle, he smiled: somewhere up here would be all the information he needed; about the kingdom, Queen Elsa, her family. All his answers were within these rooms.

It would not be difficult to come up with a reason to get the keys. If nothing else worked, he would appeal to the protectiveness many of the older staff members felt towards both Elsa and Anna. But he knew the hardest part would be risking what little faith he had kindled in them towards himself, particularly as these locks proved just how tentative it was. He would have to tread very carefully, and make sure to have a reasonable excuse if caught. Though he did not plan to get caught.

The grand staircase ended at this floor, but he found the smaller one Anna had taken him up the evening before – and how strange, to consider less than a day had passed since then! He went up and had a look around, thought not a lengthy one, because as he had expected, it was mostly storage space, and none of what was stored was particularly interesting: outmoded furniture, a child's tandem bike, chests of moth-eaten clothing, a pile of storybooks, and more of that sort of flotsam. And aside from the balcony where he had gone with Anna and a tiny set of stairs that appeared to lead to a clocktower, there were also several turret rooms, but all were empty, the floors carpeted thickly with dust.

That was the measure of the castle taken – he just needed those keys now, but at least he had a good idea of what the final floor to be explored would contain. And this was one more thing he could take off the long list he had made, one more goal successfully accomplished. Thus far, considering the circumstances, he was pleasantly surprised that things, as a whole, had gone so remarkably smoothly.

Another pleasant surprise awaited him upon his return to his own room – his lists had been completed. Gunnar had left them on his desk, had even had the sense to place them in a sealed envelope. Hans would certainly keep him on after he made the move here, if Gunnar was willing to enter his service officially. Hans rather suspected he would; he had seen the way his father treated his staff: like automata designed only to make sure he and his family never had to wait a moment for anything, requested or not. Hans believed there were more effective ways to inspire loyalty.

He opened the envelope and briefly perused the lists, really noticing only how scant were the household staff, though of course that was what he would have expected. So many positions seemed to be missing – aside from the steward, there were no ladies-in-waiting, no chamberlains, no maids who answered directly to Anna. Lady's maids, he believed they were; all his brothers' wives seemed to have flocks of them, but here there were none. There were hardly any maids at all. It was a relatively small castle, admittedly, but someone still had to scrub the floors or polish the silver or do whatever most servants did.

A knock at the door interrupted his study; he carefully replaced the lists and tucked the envelope into his jacket before admitting entrance. There was nothing illicit about it, truly, but he did not want more rumors spreading than likely already had. This was the most critical time for what the people of Arendelle would make of him, and that meant it was necessary to comport himself carefully around even the lowest servants.

This one was a young man dressed rather like a page, but Hans had seen none of those listed, either – really, how had Arendelle maintained any diplomatic relations at all? - so this was probably someone else hired for the coronation and given a uniform that befitted a social class well above his own. "Her majesty's advisors are here," he said, then thought better of it and added, "Sir."

Not entirely accurate, but it would do. "Thank you," Hans said, and gave him a smile intended to convey the same. He followed the boy through the halls he now knew, to the council chambers off the ballroom. An odd location, to be sure, but as the throne was in the ballroom, perhaps it doubled as a hall for assemblies, and the chamber had been placed accordingly. Fortunately, there was a separate entrance – he could hear the buzz of a hundred conversations in the ballroom.

Elsa's advisors stood as he entered, clearly recognizing him though of course he knew no one except Per, who stood by the door in case assistance was needed (and, Hans suspected, to pay careful attention to his every word, decision, or proclamation, no matter how trivial). Those around the long table at the center of the room only sat again after he had done the same.

There were only five of them, but they were all well-dressed and clearly well-mannered, which pleased him after his dealings with the castle staff. He introduced himself, and they to him, and each of them rose again to bow, which also pleased him: Nils Larsen, leader in the parliamentary Lagting and so legislative leader of Arendelle; Harald Eidar, the chancellor of the mint; Admiral Johannes Pedersson, head of the royal navy; Nils Linden, marshal of the Odelsting and representing the landholders of the kingdom; and Bishop Thomas Dresdner, head of the church in Arendelle and the man who had crowned Queen Elsa.

Hans made careful note of their names, but also their tones of voice, trying to gauge immediately something of their feelings towards Elsa or himself. This would likely be the most important event of the day, and perhaps of many days – there would be no time for even a moment of complacency.

He enjoyed these sorts of challenges.

"Thank you for coming at such short notice," he said. "I trust you have all been apprised of the current situation?"

"I imagine most of us experienced it directly," Linden the marshal said, looking around the table for nods of assent. There was a rough, uncultured edge to his voice, almost hidden beneath careful enunciation.

"Well, yes," Hans agreed. "And should I assume that for each of you – as it was for me – these events came as a surprise?" He knew he could not outright ask if any of them had had foreknowledge of what Elsa could do. But he needed to know if they had – even if he also had to be careful not to imply any accusations against either her or them.

Maybe it had not been as delicately phrased as he had hoped – he saw Pedersson and Larsen exchange glances, and Linden pursed his lips, his brow ever-so-slightly drawing down. But it was the bishop who spoke: "I have served the royal family and on this council since before Queen Elsa was born. I am the longest serving member of the queen's advisory council. And I knew nothing of this."

What he did not say, Hans knew, was that he had been kept in the dark, yet asked to say the words to entrust in Elsa the kingdom he had served so long. Here, Hans thought, might be someone who felt betrayed enough to become an ally, someone who might trust him even without having heard Anna's orders. He would work to cultivate the possibility.

"I don't believe any of us knew," Larsen said, and the others shook their heads.

Hans nodded. "As I suspected. It seems her majesty kept her secret from everyone. Even Princess Anna claimed not to know."

"And may _we_ assume the princess had not yet come back?" Pedersson asked, shifting his large frame in the chair. "You said last night she went to find the queen."

Where did he think Anna might be, if she wasn't here, locked up in Hans' bedroom? Admiral Pedersson, like Per, was clearly not going to accept Hans merely at his word – he would have to tread lightly with this one. "No, Princess Anna has not returned. I advised her of how she might find a safe place to spend the night. It seems likely that she did so, and that her search then only began in the last few hours. I would not expect her back yet."

Another look was exchanged between Larsen and Pedersson, clearly hinting at questions Hans suspected they wanted to ask, if doing so would not have given the impression that they were questioning his authority. Questions about Anna's leaving, her decision to allow him to take charge, his letting her go without even a guard or escort. Things they were probably all thinking, but he knew none would voice them. Not now, anyway – they were constructing things as delicately as he was, and were likely just as inclined to keep the room civil and calm.

"Until Anna does return," Hans went on, "we must care for her sister's kingdom as best we are able. And that is why I have asked you to meet me here today – I am a newcomer to Arendelle, but I want to do as much as I can in this time of need. For that, I will need your help."

Most of them nodded, but Pedersson's was very curt, and Eidar, the chancellor of the mint, merely leaned forward, folding his hands atop the table. He had a long, narrow face and hard eyes. "Tell me, Prince Hans – what do you plan to do if neither Queen Elsa nor Princess Anna returns?" It was the first time he had spoken since giving his name, and though his voice remained polite and cultured, Hans was taken somewhat aback by the baldfaced nature of the question.

"As I believe I said last night, I do expect them both to return," he said quickly, and it was the best he could come up with in the moment. And Eidar, too, now nodded – but there was something in his eyes that Hans could not quite read. He would need to be particularly careful in dealings with this one.

"Now," he continued, "I need to know how Arendelle currently stands. This is a tenuous time when many may believe they could gain through exploiting the current... situation. If we are to protect the kingdom, we must collate our greatest resource – our combined knowledge. I need from you any information you believe pertinent – about government, legislature, military, finances. We can sift better than he can dig. So I beg of you, gentlemen, please leave nothing out. Not the slightest detail."

And so they talked, and lunch was brought in, and they continued to talk through and well beyond. And Hans had rarely felt so capable, so respected, so very _necessary_. He asked questions, he led the discussion where he needed it to go, he added, eventually, thoughts of his own. Maybe, he realized, being seen as trustworthy wasn't as important as being seen as a necessity – and he believed he could lead them to see that, here and now, he was certainly the latter.

Regardless of their views, he had no doubts that the information they provided him would be indispensable, supporting and adding to the research he had done before he came. He had not known, for instance, that the navy, most of Arendelle's military power, had been halved a decade before – due, most likely, to the dire financial straits the country had been left in by severely damaged trade relations. Diplomatic ties had been severed during the later years of the king's rule, and though some had made tentative attempts to rekindle relationships under the new queen, Arendelle would likely remain heavily in debt to the few allies it had retained for many years to come. It had borrowed funds to pay for upkeep, for the military, for the royal family's own necessities. And it had not been a wealthy land to begin with, lacking the natural resources or landmass to negotiate its way to prestige within European diplomacy. There had always been reliance on foreign assistance, but this had grown exponentially since the king had closed himself and his family off in their own home, more than a decade before.

"Including significant funds borrowed from your own homeland," Linden said.

Hans knew that part, of course – his father's generosity to Arendelle was one of the reasons he had expected success in making a marriage arrangement, since he would then forgive at least some of the debt. But how, if all this was true, had the extent of it not escaped the confines of the kingdom?

Or had his father been selective in what information he allowed Hans to see? What purpose would it have served?

He would give this some thought later. He did not particularly trust his father, but also had no reason to explicitly distrust him. Still, it was interesting that either this had been kept a secret, somehow, from everyone – or from himself.

"Queen Elsa is aware of this?" Hans asked.

"Of course," Pedersson said – apparently ever her ally, regardless of the current tenuousness of his job and any threat Elsa might pose. "It was the reason she gave for keeping her coronation festivities to a minimum."

And they had believed this, apparently – despite, as Anna had bemoaned, Elsa's extremely reclusive nature. But of course, Hans had to remind himself, these men were professionals at what they were doing, men who had not been born where they were, but had carefully crafted a ladder to where they wanted to be. They would not remain there long if they were in the habit of questioning their monarch. If her reason given was concern for her own coffers, they would not dare suggest otherwise.

"Her majesty had many ideas regarding Arendelle's restoration," Larsen put in, "including renegotiating fishing rights in Lake Isen and the possibility of annexing some trade routes through the Baltic Sea."

Which would barely remove a skilling from the debt, but Hans nodded nonetheless. "And did she ever speak of her own concerns?"

"...Concerns?" Bishop Dresdner asked.

Hans saw no reason to beat around the bush here – these men, if any, would know of his father's attempts to arrange a relationship with the throne. "Marriage. Surely the best way to secure the funds and protection she needs would be through such an alliance?"

Larsen and Pedersson again looked at one another, but it was Eidar who spoke: "It has certainly been suggested, your highness. To the queen, and to her father before her."

"There were negotiations with Leisalla," Linden said, "but Queen Elsa felt it necessary to break them off while mourning her parents."

"Yes, I am aware of that particular situation," Hans said. "She has considered no one herself since then? No one for Princess Anna?"

The advisors, as a whole, shook their heads. "Perhaps," Bishop Dresdner said, "she feared the revelation of her secrets." He said it carefully, delicately – but Hans saw its possibility. This was as close as any of them had come to saying something that might seem to hint at doubting Elsa's divine right to rule, or at least questioning that other lands would accept that divine right.

Hans finally adjourned the meeting by asking them to return for the same the next day, if neither Queen Elsa nor Princess Anna had returned. He truly, at this point, doubted that they would – neither could have much in the way of survival skills or stamina; with every chime of the clock, their permanent disappearance into the wilderness seemed more likely. It was something he would have to be prepared to handle.

Before it reached that point, he would send some of Arendelle's few military men out to look for them, later; for the time being, he had his next meeting, with the heads of household staff. He tapped his fingers on the table as he waited for them to arrive – a prince waiting for staff, another peculiarity of Arendelle! - and thought of what he had just learned and what he already knew. Patiently, he tried to piece it all together: the puzzle was not complete, but he could see more of the pattern emerging.

A thought occurred to him, a possibility, and he stilled his tapping hand, looked toward the man standing silently beside the door. "Per."

"Yes, your highness?"

"Can you tell me where the royal family keeps its records?" It was a legitimate, believable request, coming on the heels of the conversation with Elsa's advisors. He knew perfectly well that Per had heard and likely would remember every word of it.

He was not surprised at the man's hesitation – and he knew before Per said a word, then, what the answer would be. "There is a private library. On the third floor."

Inside, Hans smiled from ear to ear, satisfied beyond compare – he had done it, and so easily. "There are some things I have just learned that I would like to know more about. I will need access to that library," he said – calm and neutral and composed. It was not a request. "Please have the keys delivered to my room by nightfall."


	20. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Kristoff was still holding the bag of things the girl had bought for him, and his well-honed sense of self preservation was having a tantrum, telling him to give it all back and tell her no, no way – because the longer he waited, the less likely that response became. She was looking right back at him, bold and fearless and apparently a lunatic. She must have escaped from some institution. He should drag her back to Arendelle and insist on a reward.

He should leave her here to wait for someone to come along who could take her home.

He should hand her back the bag, and thank her, and be gone. Quickly.

What he should _not_ do was take her further into the mountains, where she might get him killed as well as herself. Something about this whole situation felt very, very wrong, and she could buy him the entirety of Oaken's haphazard stock, it wouldn't make him any more inclined to risk his own neck for her. No matter how pleading her eyes were, no matter how determined her expression, he should not do it.

"Before we go anywhere," he said, "you're going to come clean with me about who you are and why you want to go up there."

He saw the light go on in her eyes, her struggle to keep a stern face while her lips tried desperately to curl into a smile. "I can stop this," she said. "The weather." She shifted, pushing her braids back over her shoulders, stood taller.

"_You_ can stop this." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"And how exactly can you do that?"

"Because I know who's causing it."

Caught up in his own skepticism, it took him a moment to realize what was off about what she had said – did she know about magic? He'd never met anyone from the city who did. But now wasn't the time to discuss it. "And who would that be?" he asked instead.

For the first time, she hesitated, and her mask fell away so he could see the desperation beneath. "My sister," she said softly. "Elsa. Queen Elsa of Arendelle."

He couldn't help it – his mouth dropped open. He stared at her. Now she did smile, but it was small and tentative and hopeful. She was holding one arm, rubbing it just above the elbow, nervous.

"Your... sister," Kristoff said, and that was as much as he could manage before he had to fight the urge to run as fast and as far as he could, leave not just her but the whole damn kingdom behind, never look back.

He wanted to convince himself she was lying, because if she wasn't, he was in even deeper trouble than he had thought. He had assumed upper class - "royal" had never even crossed his mind; of course it hadn't, because who had ever heard of, much less stumbled upon, some random royal family member in the woods in the middle of nowhere? It didn't happen.

But he believed her. He had known lots of people who lied – casually, flippantly, and many of them very well. They also always had motives. This girl did not. And there was an open, pleading honesty in her eyes. What could she have to gain from this, from risking her life when she'd already almost lost it once today? From trusting him?

There was no reason. Because she was telling the truth.

He was still staring at her; she finally let her eyes look away, the bold facade really beginning to crack. He rarely more than glanced at someone, but now it was as if he had no choice – he had to know for sure, though of course he had been through the years of his age then twice over in the interim, and what he had seen then had been distant and mostly obscured.

But of course that was it – what he had seen; of course he should have known it was _who_, not what. It was the same thing. She was one of the ones he had seen. And the other one, the older one...

A blizzard climbing the North Mountain.

"So will you..." the girl said, but her voice trailed off and she had to swallow hard before trying again: "Will you take me up there? Please?"

"You still haven't told me who you are." Though of course he knew – not a name, but certainly a title, and she would be within her rights to say that for the likes of him, that would be all that was needed.

But she said, "Oh – sorry. Anna. I'm Anna."

She gave no title, and that was part of what decided him. The other part was the flash in his mind – the way she ran ahead of him, calling back, her hair deep brown and tangled and wild, her feet bare, all of five years old. As old as she would ever get.

Aina. Anna.

The Anna who stood before him was nothing like Aina. They would never be mistaken for one another, not even by a blind man. And he didn't believe in coincidence, in fates, signs, portents. Even if he had, what would that mean for what would happen now? He had not been able to save her. Who was to say this wasn't a warning that the same could happen again?

The blood – on her face, on her dress, even on those bare feet. She couldn't cry, so he had cried for her, and for his inability to protect her, to stop them. When he tried, they hit him too, nothing to it, and threw him out and he beat the door, kicked it, screamed, but none of it mattered. All he could do was cry for her. Afterward.

Anna – Princess Anna; couldn't forget that part – was still watching him, still waiting, playing with the clasp on the bag at her waist.

"Get in, if you're coming," he said.

She grinned – even at a time like this – and he couldn't help but notice it seemed to spread across every bit of her face, open and eager. She still looked mostly like someone painfully out of her element, but he had to admit, she was pretty cute. Still trouble, but cute.

She scrambled into the sled as if she feared he might change his mind – it was tempting – and perched on the seat beside him, ready to go. He rolled his eyes, put the bag of new supplies at their feet, and snapped the reins to get Sven moving. She leaned forward and put her hands on her knees, eager.

He was in so far over his head he might as well resign himself to drowning. No possible way he was going to come out of this with his life as it currently existed unscathed – and he _liked_ his life as it currently existed.

"It's going to take awhile," he said, "so you might as well sit back and relax." He could see her in his peripheral vision. It was making him nervous – every time she moved, it looked like she was about to go flying.

"I've never ridden in a sled before," she said – not quite a reply.

He sighed. "Please sit back before you fall out."

"I won't fall out."

He gritted his teeth, flicked the reins again. He had told her, what else could he do? She was a _princess_. He couldn't grab her and tie her to the seat. If she wanted to risk her royal neck, there was nothing he could do about it, except make sure Sven was kept to a reasonably slow clip.

They rode in silence for awhile, she regularly leaning and twisting to get better glimpses of things, he resisting the urge to grab her arm and haul her back to balance every time she did it. He could feel a painful tension building up behind his eyes.

"You didn't tell me _your_ name," she said abruptly, turning from one precarious perch to another as she moved her gaze to him.

"Kristoff."

"Is it short for Christopher?"

"No."

"I always wished I could have a nickname, but what can you do with 'Anna'? It's too short."

Was she trying to make conversation?

"I guess you could do _something_ with it, but it would be kind of odd to nickname yourself and there was never anyone else around to do it. Do you have a nickname?"

She _was_ trying to make conversation. Awkwardly. "No."

"Does your reindeer have a name?"

"Yeah. Sven."

She made a little affectionate, that's-adorable cooing kind of noise, and he felt himself reddening. It was just a name. It wasn't meant to be cute.

"I tried to name my pony, when I was younger," she said, "but I could never decide what suited him best. And he wasn't really mine, anyway, I just shared him with Elsa when we were learning to ride, then he was more mine because she quit. I think. Anyway, he wasn't really a pet or anything. I would've liked a pet, like Sven. Something all mine."

"Sven's not a pet."

A pause. "Yeah, I guess not."

She actually sounded hurt – and when he glanced at her, she was looking down at her hands. He felt a little flare of disquiet, almost like guilt, but tried to tamp it down, and quickly. She'd probably just always had people agreeing with every word she said, no matter how inane.

But he still found himself trying to make her feel better, giving her a little half-smile when he said, "You mean a princess can't have whatever she wants?"

She returned her own crooked smirk. "Well, I never got that baby unicorn I asked for when I was six."

He was surprised at how inclined he felt to laugh. He would give her credit for, princess or not, having a sense of humor. He wasn't going to be too pleased if she insisted on trying to talk to him all the time, though, funny or not. If he wanted conversation, he could have gone to live in the city.

"Kristoff and Sven," she said, as if making sure to commit to to memory. "Sven and Kristoff." Then – thankfully – she lapsed into silence again, and even better, finally sat back against the seat, crossing her arms and staring out at nothing in particular.

When he looked at her again, she was slumped to the side, head fallen back, mouth hanging open – sound asleep.

He stared for a moment, caught between fascination and amusement that she could fall asleep that quickly, that completely, here and now – riding in a sled through an impossible winter with a complete stranger. As he watched, she jerked and tried to turn sideways and made a little snorting sound, not quite a snore.

She must be absolutely exhausted. How long had she been wandering around out here before he found her? He hadn't asked her that, or even how she'd wound up out here all alone in the first place. There was a story behind all this he was almost curious to know. Except he was worried it would just make his involvement even messier.

He rode on for awhile, through the middle of the day, debating with himself about what to do now – he really wanted this particular trip over and done with as soon as possible, but she clearly needed sleep, good, long sleep, and she wasn't likely to get that jostling around in a sled, out in the cold. Finally, with an internal sigh, he veered harder to the east, heading for one of the remote farmsteads that were scattered around out here. There was a storage shed for winter, probably empty right now, where they could stop for a few hours' rest.

He found himself glancing at her – making sure she wasn't going to fall off the bench or anything. Her cheeks were still flushed with cold, but her color was better already than it had been when he'd found her, and she looked warm enough, no longer viciously shivering. It still seemed unlikely, but maybe, just maybe, she would make it through this insane mission she'd sent herself on – without having to be carried the whole way.

Maybe.

He could see the meandering line of smoke from the fireplace at the little farmhouse, but there was no reason to disturb the family within; they knew him and Sven, traded with him, ice for fresh vegetables, and he had permission to sleep in the shed when he was passing through. He brought Sven to a stop outside it.

It was a tiny structure, rough, weathered boards making hardly more than a box, too small for Kristoff to stand upright inside or for Sven to even get into. But it was enough for sleep. It was out of the worst of the elements, and Sven was fine sleeping outside; the family that owned the farm had several dogs who knew Kristoff well and kept predators away.

He unhooked Sven, did his usual cover job on the sled – reminding him again of his lost money, a flare of annoyance – then ducked into the shed. As he had suspected, it was mostly empty, just a few crates in a corner and some canvas bags on the floor and the ghostly smells of preserving spices and overripe vegetation. He arranged the bags into something softer than the ground, since his bedroll was gone – it wouldn't be a bed like a princess was used to, but it would have to do.

When he went back out, he was again faced with the conundrum of how to pick up a girl – a girl who happened to be a princess, no longer in immediate danger of freezing to death, and now curled up in a position that made it very difficult to see how he might lift her. He didn't want to wake her. Then again, the way she was snoring, he wasn't sure picking her up and throwing her into the shed would wake her. He'd never realized girls snored, never really thought about it, definitely had never thought of a princess snoring. This one sounded like she could give Sven some competition.

The thought made him smile.

He finally just gathered her up in a bundle, and she folded in on herself without ever seeming close to waking. She did push her head back against his chest, which startled him, but since she was still making contented little snorting sounds, he dismissed it as dreaming. Maybe she was still a little bit cold.

In the shed, he got her settled on the canvas bags, tucked the big cloak around her like a blanket. She curled and snuggled and murmured nonsense, then started snoring again. He sat, leaning back against the stack of crates, trying to look somewhere that wasn't at her – asleep or not, that would be a little strange, and probably breaking some obscure law about staring at sleeping royals. He finally just looked up at the ceiling.

He would try to nap too – nothing else to do – but his mind was going too many different directions right now, suddenly just as shaken up as everything else in his world. He needed to just sit and stay calm for awhile, let everything sift out on its own until all that was left was a plan. Then he would be able to sleep.

Unfortunately, planning wasn't really his forté. He was good at doing – very little in his life required a lot of thought. And when it came to some of what he did, stopping to think was more dangerous than just moving on instinct.

But instinct had gotten him into his mess in the first place; if he'd listened to the rational, thoughtful part of his brain he wouldn't be here right now, trying not to stare at a snoring princess. His instinct appeared to have finally made a serious mistake.

And the only way he could see to fix it was to just get her up the mountain, since that was where she wanted to go. But what then? He had hoped to find whatever people she was meant to be with, but she had said nothing about traveling with anyone else. And there was no telling what they might find on that mountain – odds were, nothing good. The world around him was magic on a scale he had never imagined. Whatever this princess thought she was going to find, Kristoff suspected he wasn't going to be able to leave her there, sister or not. Meaning he would _still_ have to figure out what to do with her. If, that was, her sister – the _queen of Arendelle_ – didn't order him put to death right then and there for running around unsupervised with the princess.

He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn't see any way this could turn out well.

All he had to go on about Queen Elsa was a distant, blurry memory from more than a decade before, and he'd been paying attention then to the people around them, not to the royal family. He remembered she had looked frightened, but she'd been a little girl out in the woods in the middle of the night, of course she was frightened. Something had been wrong with the other one – the one he was stuck with now, and clearly there was _still_ a lot wrong with her – but he didn't remember what, if he had ever known. He didn't have much to work with from that.

Maybe he should take her back there. Tell her that was where he was going first, and she could go with him, or go on on her own. They might know what to do, or at least know more about what was going on and whether going up the North Mountain was safe. He'd been planning to do it alone before she showed up, but that was different – risking just his own life was his business and nobody else's.

But he kind of felt that he had already promised to take her where she wanted to go – maybe not actually saying it, but certainly strongly implying it. And it was very obvious how much she had decided to trust him, even if he had no idea why. It might be safer to take her back to his friends – family, whatever they were – but it wouldn't make him feel like a very good person.

So those were his options – keep her safe and betray her trust, or take her up the mountain and risk her life. It didn't seem like the former should feel like the worse option, but it did. He kind of liked that he had been worthy of her trust, strangely enough. He tried so hard not to descend to the level of most people in the world, the ones who stole money and killed reindeer and beat little girls, and he had never wanted acknowledgment for that, it was just the right thing to do. But if it was noticed, that was okay, too. It was nice, this strange girl wanting his help, because maybe she could see that about him.

Or was it? His thoughts were verging on maudlin. Of course this princess trusted him – she'd probably spent her whole life surrounded by people paid to cater to her every whim, never in danger of anything going wrong or anyone betraying her in so much as what she was served for breakfast. Her biggest problem thus far has been not knowing what to name her _pony_. And if he let himself believe her trust was from anything he had done, he was as crazy as she was.

He glanced back down at her, just for a moment. She was curled up into a ball beneath her cloak, one long red braid draped across her face; it occasionally brushed against her nose when she breathed, making it twitch, until she finally reached up and pawed it away, muttering.

He thought of Aina again, how desperate he'd felt when he was outside the door, unable to get in but hearing everything that was happening inside. Kicking the wood, screaming at no one, because he had to do something. He _had_ to.

The look on his girl's face, Princess Anna's face, when she had asked him to take her up the mountain – she was not kicking and screaming at a door, but maybe she had done so before. The desperation was the same. If he told her what had happened, she would understand. He had seen it, unmistakeable, in her eyes.

He would take her up the mountain. Because if that was where she needed to go to get through that door, then he would give her that chance.

His rational mind was trying to get his attention again, but it was too late for that; he dismissed it. The matter decided, he allowed himself to stretch out on the floor (making sure to stay a comfortable distance from the cloaked curl that was Princess Anna). He took his hat off, settled it over his face to block out the daylight, and was asleep in seconds.


	21. Chapter 19

**This one is up today deliberately - I worked hard to make sure it was! Consider this a double celebration - the digital release of ****_Frozen_**** yesterday (the excitement in this house was palpable yesterday morning) and a fourth birthday today. So how about it? This was a fun chapter, too - the first real interaction between Anna and Kristoff, which is ****_always_**** a joy to write, and some playful Elsa, too. It was nice to get away from the doom and gloom and plotting for awhile! **

**A quick note regarding a stylistic choice - I have been taken to task (rightly!) on several occasions, by several people, about my use of "alright" and "nevermind" as single words. So let me say here that I am well aware that they are, formally, meant to be "all right" and "never mind." It's artistic license that gives me the freedom to use the more informal versions; one of the joys of fiction is that it allows some creative expression down to the micro level of words (e.g., the common use of the more linguistically flowing "wanna" instead of "want to" as in Anna's frequently-used phrase regarding a snowman) as well as the more macro sentences, paragraphs, plotlines. So rest assured, I am aware of this being something that would get me notes in red on a formal writing project - but this is not one of those. So I choose the casual versions, particularly as "nevermind" is often Anna's word (not in this chapter, actually, but... never mind!), and we ****_know_**** Anna likes her creative use of language, Miss "beautifuller." :) So please forgive me the use, and grant me the license to stick with what I've used thus far. (And I know "tufty" isn't a word - again, it's ****_Anna_****!)**

**With that out of the way, let me finish with the most important part of this, my acknowledgements: as always, to LadyTralala, NicPie, and LaraAelric for being the best people to bounce ideas off of. And a special thanks must go to ****ksmith201072 for agreeing to take on the thankless task of taking my issues with spelling, grammar, and flow and making them somehow, magically, work that much better. I appreciate all of you, and everyone else, too - all those who leave reviews and send PMs, you're awesome. Thanks. :) **

**Made it this far? Give Anna a poke, would you? It's time for her to get up... **

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Anna came awake slowly, luxuriously, relishing being warm and comfortable. She snuggled deeper into it all, her mind still fuzzy with sleep, craving this comfort and safety. It wasn't quite right – the bed was too hard, the smell of the room too musty and musky and quite unfamiliar – but just then, she found she did not care.

At her side, something moved.

And she froze.

Alert now, everything came flooding back – Elsa, being in the woods, falling and landing in that creek (she was definitely now feeling the effects of that; she was glad she couldn't see those bruises). And the man who had come after her, _saved_ her, probably – Christopher?

"Kristoff," she whispered, remembering. "Kristoff and Sven."

They had been on the sled, and she'd felt so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open, and at some point even that must have been too much, because now she was waking up here, curled up tightly against – she carefully, slowly lifted her head to confirm – this man Kristoff. He was as sound asleep as she had been, his hat over his face, one arm behind his head, the other half-curled around her. She had somehow wound up with her head tucked against his side, which was presumably not what he had intended.

This was probably one of those things princesses weren't supposed to do. But Elsa had started it all, running away. And besides, she had been _asleep_.

She pushed herself up to a sit, trying not to jostle him. He didn't look nearly as intense and menacing and huge when he was sleeping – well, no, he was still huge, but it wasn't so intimidating now. She cocked her head, staring openly down at him. He had a pleasant enough face, weathered and reddened with exposure, all uneven rises and falls that she couldn't help comparing to Hans: the man before her had no sign of cheekbones, a nose that took up half his face, and an untidy mass of blond hair that was matted and tufty from his hat. This close and fully awake, she also had no choice but to notice how strongly he and his well-patched, fraying clothes smelled of sweat and dirt. It wasn't as unpleasant as she might have expected, but it sure was strong.

He was strange, this Kristoff, and she got the feeling he had already decided not to like her, which was both irritating and unfair. She hadn't asked him to come along and rescue her, and she probably would have eventually been fine on her own. Also, she hadn't done anything except ask him to take her up the stupid mountain, since he knew where to find Elsa.

Or so he said. Her mind clearer after a few hours' sleep, she couldn't help but wonder how he could know where Elsa had gone, when Anna had been looking for her all night and day and didn't have any clue where she was. He might be lying, to get her somewhere far away and then demand a reward for her return – that happened in the novels she read. Except if that was the case, why was she wearing new clothes he had bought for her? Why had she woken up next to him here instead of tied up on his sled for ease of kidnapping? Besides, it wasn't like he had come and snatched her from the castle.

Still, her mind insisted on returning to the men who had chased her until Hans showed up. If Kristoff decided he wanted whatever they had wanted – she refused to dwell on the details – there was no Hans here and probably little she could do on her own to get away. The thought was disquieting. She looked at him again – big as he was, he just didn't seem very threatening, sound asleep with a hat over his eyes. And traveling together had been _her_ idea; his reluctance had been obvious.

She wondered how far they had traveled and how much longer it would take to get up the mountain. Hopefully not long. All of this – being outdoors, the winter, no sleep, no food – was losing its novelty; she wanted to go home, _with_ Elsa, and everything could go back to the way it had been before. Elsa could get rid of the cold and snow; Anna reasoned that if she had started it, she could surely stop it, and then just become the wonderful queen Anna knew she would be. So they just had to get to her, talk to her.

Her nap had improved her mood considerably, the world more positive, brighter. They could do this, find Elsa, help her, get her back home. Even better, now that Anna knew what she had been hiding, Elsa could be her real sister again, her friend. They would work it out together, and everything would all be alright.

Feeling restless, Anna got to her feet and moved around Kristoff, carefully stepping over his flung-out arm. She wanted to see what was going on outside – and look for something to eat. She couldn't remember ever being so hungry in her life. Then again, she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday's breakfast, and even then very little, too excited about the coronation to focus on food.

Opening the door and ducking out, she was shocked all over again by what awaited her; her mind still expected summer, not the sudden assault of frigid wind, the endless vista of white stretching before her. A rough wooden fence surrounding the shed glistened with a thick coating of ice, and snow drifts reached as high as her waist just beyond the overhanging roof above the door. The only spot of color were the sled and Sven the reindeer, tied securely to the fence nearby.

Anna clambered up atop the piled snow and found it easier to walk now than she had earlier – the top had frozen to a hard crust, so she left footprints rather than sinking with every step: an enormous improvement. Sven lifted his head to look at her as she approached, but didn't get up. She smiled and held out her hand and he snuffled at it, clearly hoping for a treat.

She laughed at the feeling of it, delighted. "I'll find something for you, too." She hoisted herself onto the back of the sled and was digging through all the junk piled there, looking for the bag of food, when the door of the shed behind her burst open once more. She jumped – almost sending herself off the sled – and turned to see Kristoff stumbling out the door and looking around frantically. When he caught sight of her, he relaxed visibly, running a hand over his face and huffing out a sigh of relief. Then his eyes widened again.

"What are you _doing_?"

She attempted a smile. "I'm hungry. Sven, too."

"Sven..." This time, he rubbed both hands across his face. "Get down. I'll get you food. I mean, uh..." He pursed his lips, took a deep breath. "Please. Uh, princess."

She made a face at him. "My name is Anna. And I can find it." She turned from him and resumed digging, pointedly ignoring him when he came closer – determined to show she wasn't completely helpless.

"Fine. Anna." There was a strange note in his voice – almost pleading. "Please let me do it."

"But I'm just-" Something crunched beneath her hand. She winced and pulled back. "Uh... sorry. Yeah. You do it."

She crawled back and dropped to the ground, trying to pretend not to notice his pained expression. He leaned, pulled out the bag - had it really been right there? - and handed it to her, then began putting everything else back in order with an irritated sigh. She left him to it; how was she supposed to know he was so particular about a bunch of old junk? She went back to Sven, pulling out an apple for him and one for herself. Nothing she'd eaten had ever tasted half as good. Sven seemed to share the sentiment.

She looked back to the sled when she was finished; Kristoff was leaning against the side and looking rather morose, staring off at nothing in particular. She felt a pang of guilt, her irritation softening – she'd never been very good at listening to people, but it _was_ his stuff, not hers.

"Hungry?" she asked, trying to make amends.

But he just shook his head. She shrugged and pulled open the bag again, wondering if she wanted to have something else. She was tired of moody people - not just Kristoff, Elsa and everybody else too. Couldn't they just _try_ being pleasant for awhile? It wouldn't kill them.

She wasn't really very hungry anymore. She closed the bag again, carried it back to the sled and placed it _very carefully_ on the back. When she turned around, he was watching her;she wrinkled her nose at him.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Whenever you are."

He smirked. "Right. I'll get Sven hooked up, and we'll be on our way." He turned and walked towards the bundled reins at the front of the sled without waiting for a reply.

She gave one anyway: "I can help."

He didn't even turn around. "No."

She crossed her arms and glared at him while he worked. He ignored her, but made an exaggerated sweeping motion for her to get on the sled, so she knew he had noticed. She held her head high, stalked past him with her nose in the air, hoped he didn't notice her little stumble as she tried to step up without looking. Maybe the self-satisfied smile on his face would have been there anyway.

She would never under any circumstances have admitted it to anyone, but underneath her annoyance at him, she was kind of having fun. She hadn't had this kind of interaction with someone in as long as she could remember. Hardly anyone talked to her at all. Now there had been Hans, and Elsa for that little while, and now Kristoff – if she wasn't in the midst of a disaster, the last two days would have been some of the best of her life.

But she wasn't going to let this _Kristoff_ know that. She settled back on the seat, crossed her arms, and did her best to look haughty. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye – she could see him – and shook his head, taking the reins and giving them a brisk snap.

They went quickly and smoothly over the snow, away from the open fields and back into the trees, chasing the sun, already starting to sink below the heavy horizon of the mountains. Anna quickly gave up on her sulk, more eager to enjoy the exhilaration of the ride than to guilt him about snubbing her. She sat up and leaned forward, thrilled, the wind whipping her cloak and her braids. Even on a horse, she had never gone so fast; there had never been room in the courtyards to reach these kinds of speeds even if she'd been allowed.

"Please sit back," Kristoff said, and she could hear the exasperation in his voice. "You'll-"

"I know," she said, "You told me earlier."

"Then why are you doing it again?"

"I won't fall off!"

He sighed and adjusted their course slightly as the woods around them thickened. "You've had lots of practice going up mountains on sleds, _Princess_?" The last word dripped with sarcasm, and when she whirled to glare at him, he was giving her a very smug look from the corner of his eye.

"_Anna_," she said, trying to load the word with just as much meaning. "And _no_, I have not."

"Then how about listening to me, huh?" He pulled the reins again, veering right. And because she had been looking at him, putting her off balance, she almost did go flying, would have if he hadn't grabbed her arm.

"See?"

"You did that on purpose!"

He shrugged and said nothing, neither confirming nor denying. She slumped back and crossed her arms again, fuming.

She wished she had something to throw at him. Sulking just didn't have the same effect. She turned away from him and stared out at the white world, all smooth stillness now, not even an echo of last night's chaos. For several minutes, the only sound was the rushing whisper of the sled over the snow.

It was Kristoff who spoke first. "So what's _Anna's_ story, then?"

She glanced at him, a little suspicious of his motives – and of the question itself. But he was looking out at the direction they were heading, his expression mild.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. If we're going up this mountain, I want to know who I'm going with."

She bit her lip, somewhat nonplussed. "I guess..." But she stopped, feeling suddenly very uncertain. She had told Hans all about herself, but somehow, that had been easy, and she hadn't been put on the spot about it, it had just _happened_. "I don't know. I guess there's not really much to tell. My life's pretty boring."

He snorted in obvious disbelief. "Right. A princess running after her sister up a mountain, her sister who just happens to be queen and to have magic winter powers. Yes, that's one of the most boring life stories I've ever heard. Try again."

"You just said it, though – Elsa's the interesting one, not me."

"Tell me anyway."

"About _what_?"

"About _Anna_." But then he made a face and shook his head. "Look, nevermind. I was just making conversation. Let's drop it."

She watched him, but he was looking fixedly ahead again, apparently intent on the snow. She thought of trying to ask him the same question – Kristoff's story – but suspected now was not yet the time.

"I like reindeer," she ventured softly.

_Now_ he looked at her. "What?"

"Well, I just assumed you must like them, too. It looks like you take good care of Sven. And so I thought..."

She could see the ghost of a smile as he looked ahead once more. "Yeah. Yeah, I like reindeers, too."

_Reindeers_ – she thought that was kind of cute.

* * *

Elsa had found a cave – well, it was little more than a rock overhang, but enough to huddle beneath, relishing the safety of being enclosed once more. She even curled up on her side, clinging to her knees and tucking her head down and hoping to sleep. Mind and body, she felt too exhausted to think or move or figure out what to do. She didn't care anymore – it didn't matter what she did, everything was still ruined.

Because of her.

Sleep wouldn't come. She sat up, finally, staring out at the swirling snow, listening to the endless keening of the wind. It had never been like this before, never been so fierce and long and all-consuming. All her life, it had gotten stronger, harder to control, but this was something else, some threshold had been surpassed, and she feared she would never again find her way back to the other side. She was broken.

She held her hand out of the little shelter, kneeling childlike and stretching her arm to catch snowflakes in her palm. They didn't melt – they never did – but slid along her skin, silent and ghostly-soft, and she curled her fingers over to keep them there. _Hers_. They were hers. She smiled at them – a small, hesitant quirk of her lips.

When her hand was full, she pulled her arm back and placed the little mound of snowflakes at her knees. She used both hands to roll it into a ball, pushing it back and forth against the smooth stone beneath. Like a game she had once played with a toddling Anna – sending snowballs rolling down the slick wood floors in the nursery, Anna chasing them on bowed, unsteady legs, giggling madly and falling as often as she caught one.

Elsa sent this one now rolling harder, so that it careened against the accumulation at the end of the overhang and burst into powder. There was no one to catch it.

One day, surely, Anna would understand.

Once upon some distant, dreamlike time, it had all been so different – a joyful, magical, wonderful time. Elsa wanted that time back. She didn't want to be queen, or even princess. In that once upon a time, "princess" had been a nebulous stand-in for her name, no more meaningful than her mother calling her "darling," conceptual and emotional but without any true definition. Safe, beloved, nurtured, nestled and never, _ever_alone – she wanted those things again; to give up the cold and the kingdom, two gifts she had never asked to be her own.

Well, she didn't have either of those things now. Reaching up blindly, she found the little crown, still trapped in her hair; pulling it out finally dislodged the intricate tucks and whorls of her bun, tight enough to have remained in place until now, sending the original long braid cascading down her back and loose strands across her face. She put the crown carefully atop the powdered remains of her snowball, looked at it for a moment through the heavy curtain of her hair.

It had winked and shone, that crown, polished and pristine in the light from the chapel windows. Now, it looked dull and diminished and used up, tarnished. And so small, so insignificant – its symbolism lost in the hours between the then and the now. Elsa blinked, waiting for some indefinable transformation. It never came.

She raised her left hand, suddenly calm. Her fingers were still, the tremors gone. Instinct led her, the same instinctive movements that had once brought so much joy, less her conscious self and more her own desperate desire feeding into it, shaping it from deep inside her. Above her fingers, moisture coalesced and crystallized. She twisted her wrist neatly – breath hitching in her throat – and the crown was gone, buried beneath Elsa's own snow.

The next smile was a little broader, a little more confident. She sat back on her legs, pushed her hair back, and froze it there with hardly more than a thought. She could _do_ this.

No – more than could. She _should_ do this.

Shouldn't she?

Her father, Anna in his arms, stepped away from her. He was the king. He was her father. Everything he did was right. He told her to conceal it.

But this was different – surely, if he was here, he would see that, and her mother too? It was safe here, there was no one she might hurt, Arendelle was miles away, down the mountain, and she was where she would harm no one else. Anna could be queen now, as their parents had probably truly desired all along.

Elsa could not hurt anyone again. Using her powers was fine. _Fine_.

Her hands were shaking once more, the same familiar tremble. She curled them into fists, held them against her chest. Her knees hurt, from earlier damage and now kneeling on rock, but she didn't move. The wind was picking up again, the snow falling more thickly – because she was afraid?

But she had controlled it. For just that moment, as she relinquished the crown, she hadn't concealed, she had _controlled_.

She uncurled her fingers. Gazed down at them. Felt a little kernel of wonder burst into bloom once more. The anxiety, the fear, they were still larger, but that something else, that wonder, it was there. She grabbed for it, pushed herself awkwardly up, stumbling out of the overhang on legs half numb, falling into the snow and coming up grinning and exhilarated and caught in a rush of relief and acceptance so great it was almost euphoria. She fell back in the snow, let it land on her, made herself allow the feeling to bubble up, and she laughed and rolled and pushed herself to her feet and flung her arms out, an embrace for all she had made.

Here, on the mountain, there was only her, only Elsa, and none of it could hurt her, none of it _would_ hurt her, all her old friends, her true family, her greatest loves – snow and ice and wind and cold. They embraced her, glad to see her. No one was ever glad to see her. They had missed her. She had missed them.

Around her, only a breeze remained, and she could see the sky for the first time since leaving the chapel only a day before. It was a perfect, pristine, cold blue, the clouds banished, snow still dancing in the air – she snatched for it, unable to resist, and found herself laughing again. She chased the snow, ignoring the protests from her knees and her back and her shoulders. How long had it been since she had run for pleasure? She couldn't remember.

She held her hand out, palm up, and pulled it back towards her. A twirling funnel of flakes followed, and she giggled at it, delighted. With just a thought and a hand up, she could send the snow back outwards, upwards, exploding to crystals in the air, twinkling in the sunlight and settling around her as she watched it, overwhelmed with awe.

She looked up, out – somehow, in her struggling, painful, shambling journey, she had made it almost all the way up the North Mountain. She could see the apex, the year-round coating of ice and snow rougher, more primitive than her own. It winked at her in the sunlight, inviting. It, too, was glad to see her – ready to welcome her.

Walking now, something closer to her normal slow, measured pace, she started up again – heading home. She was tired, hungry, sore; she was almost there. Into another wooded area, the trees bent and twisted with exposure, she stopped again, indulged herself in making garlands of ice, hanging them from the low branches. She remembered decorations in December, St. Lucia's Day and Christmas, the strands of greenery dangling from doorways, wound around banisters, candles throughout. And Anna a dervish of excitement from dawn to dusk and well beyond, Elsa doing her best to hide her own excitement, as was expected of the elder.

Had they decorated after... after everything had gone wrong? Elsa could not remember, but she didn't think they had. Certainly, there had been no celebrations, no decorations for the last three years.

So besides garlands, what else might go here among the trees? She tried to remember, but her mind kept returning to Anna, the things Anna had loved.

Elsa stilled, considered, and knelt again. She formed the snow beneath her hands, molding it like clay, remembering Anna's tiny fingers poking out a rudimentary face, her laughter at Elsa's antics. A snowman, a snow-dog, a snow-horse. And another, and another, each a bit better than the last, perfecting her craft in a village of snow. She pretended, as she once had with Anna, that there was a magic in them much greater than her own, that she was creating for the two of them friends, brothers and sisters, pets – companions imbued with life.

She was not sure how long she had played in the snow, but when she stood and brushed off her skirt, the sun was low against the mountaintop. Time to be moving on, leaving her snow villagers to their quiet evening.

But first – she looked down at the long tear in her skirt, considering. Then, with a deep breath, she bent and passed a hand down it, sealing the rent with a seam of ice, almost invisible. She did the same to her sleeve, took a moment to admire her handiwork. She smiled.

"See, Mama?" she whispered aloud. "Good as new."

She walked on.

Behind her, in the trees, something stirred.


	22. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The meeting with Elsa's advisors turned out to be the high point of Hans' afternoon. The subsequent meeting with heads of household staff saw him met with a mixture of suspicion and indifference, most of the staff being either several decades in the employ of the royal family and therefore fiercely loyal, or new hires from the last few weeks who were simply befuddled by everything that had happened in past hours. In neither case was Hans provided much information or left feeling that he had inspired much trust.

Then, much as he wanted to return to the third floor of the castle, he felt it wise to do as he had promised the night before, and allow people to meet with him, to present any questions or concerns. Per had not yet had the keys delivered, so royal secrets would have to wait for a few more hours regardless; Hans would not be surprised if he had to ask again. If necessary, he certainly would not hesitate to do so.

And so in the meantime, he found himself once again answering the same tedious questions repeatedly, quelling the insistent frustration growing within him. This time, it was not only dignitaries and aristocrats, but commoners from Arendelle as well. They all wanted news of Elsa, of Anna, of both; how long the weather was expected to last; what was being done to make sure there was adequate food, firewood, warm clothing for those who had none. Some of the petitioners seemed satisfied with the answers he gave, some suspicious, some surly and outwardly hostile – the last, which did not surprise him in the least, were invariably citizens of Arendelle. A few he had to ask his guards to remove; a sad necessity despite the stories those removed would now likely spread.

Hans had to remind himself he wasn't here to be liked – yet – he was here to keep control of the kingdom. Trying to win hearts as well as minds would have to come later. For today, information was key, whether given or received. And he certainly continued to receive, little tidbits of information, which was truly all that got him through the giving. He was still learning, still building his mental scaffold of Arendelle, its people, its royal family. Small pieces yet, but he knew better than to discard them out of hand – they would slot into their proper places soon enough.

He met with people in the parlor on the first floor, where portraits hung of an Elsa who appeared several years younger than the one he had seen yesterday, and, facing it from the opposite wall, a man who could only have been her father; they shared the same lengthy nose and rigid posture. On the back wall hung a third portrait, less formal – two little girls sharing a book beneath the shade of a tree. The princesses of Arendelle, he suspected. Hans had chosen a seat in the parlor that unfortunately was situated between the paintings of the king and his daughter; he found it rather unnerving, as if he was being watched, his eyes drawn to them when he should have been paying attention to his flesh-and-blood visitors.

Finally, after the better part of several hours, he called a halt to the tiresome duty, unable to take another round of questions – though he did have Gunnar announce another session tomorrow; Hans would just have to hope that more creative questions might have been devised in the interim. Or maybe he would have come up with more creative answers.

He suspected he might be able to do so after several hours' sleep – and these he planned to take now, since he would then need his mind alert for his next item of business. Before returning to his room, however, he asked Gunnar to remind Per of the request for the third floor keys. "Take guards with you," Hans said – hoping his gamble on this would not prove a mistake; it was vital that he establish himself as master of this castle first and foremost. "No threats, of course. Have them then wait outside my room with the keys and make sure I'm not disturbed. I want you to take the evening and go into the city, find out what people are saying there about all this. I'll expect a report in the morning."

Gunnar bowed, ever obedient. "Yes, Your Highness."

Hopefully this would work – guards as an implicit threat; but Hans could argue, if necessary, that they were merely convenient as messengers, he had not intended to imply anything at all.

In the interim, he returned to his room, where he was pleased to see that a fire had been lit; the parlor's fireplace had not been adequate for the high-ceilinged room and he was chilled to the bone. He removed everything but his shirt and stockings, aware of how difficult laundering would be in present circumstances. Then, for the first time since coming to the castle, he climbed into the bed – which was thankfully an enormous improvement from the one on his ship – and was asleep in moments.

When he woke, the sky outside the window was a deep purple-blue, the room's only light coming from the embers of the fire, little more than a dull glow from the corner of the room. Too impatient to wait for a servant, he built it up again himself to check the time on the desk clock – it was nearing midnight.

This seemed the perfect time to begin.

He dressed again, much more casually this time, and pulled on the long cloak he'd brought in case nights were cool. No one could have anticipated a chill quite like this one, but the cloak would have to do – he couldn't build fires in every room on the third floor, particularly as he would rather not be interrupted from his work by any nosy household staff who might be wandering around at this late hour. He had so much to do, and likely precious little time to do it.

As he had hoped they would be, two members of his personal household guard were waiting outside the door. They were almost a matched pair, save for several inches' difference in height – the same broad, pugilistic faces; same thick mustaches; same breadth of muscle across chests and shoulders.

"Good evening," he said, as they immediately ducked their heads – more of his father's careful selection and training of staff. Hans wondered if he would be able to do the same, and hoped so – the end results were nice to have around. "I believe you should have something for me?"

"Your Highness," was all the shorter of the two said, but he was digging in a pocket and bringing out a ring of tarnished keys. Hans smiled as he took them – Gunnar had been sensible enough not to get just the key to the library. Which was, of course, exactly what Hans had hoped for.

There wasn't a moment to waste. He locked his own door before gesturing for the guards to accompany him – just in case some were not pleased if they happened to find him on the third floor. He could take care of himself, of course, he'd had years of training, but some things were best left to those paid to handle them. Hopefully they would have no more to do than grow bored waiting for him.

The guards fell in step behind him, matching his pace. He went first to the parlor again, taking a candlestick – and a spare candle, just in case – and lighting it from one of the flickering sconces in the hallway. He could see to get around the dim light coming through the windows, the night never fully dark this time of the year, but it would not be enough to allow him to read.

He suspected he would be doing a lot of reading.

They met no one else in the cold, hushed hallways; those still awake were presumably keeping close to fireplaces or to one another, whichever was the surer source of the heat they craved. The third floor, not surprisingly, was just as quiet, just as empty. Leaving his guards at the head of the stairs – with permission to relax if they so desired, as long as they could keep any conversations to a whisper – Hans had the whole of the floor to himself. He considered his options before deciding to begin again where he had begun last night after Anna's departure: in the unused royal quarters.

But they proved to be no more than they appeared; besides the small sitting room and balcony, there was a study opening from a door on the left wall, a bedroom on the right. All were dusty, minimally decorated, and clearly long in disuse. How many years had it been since Arendelle's king and queen were lost? From Hans' recollection, it had been at least two, if not three – but Elsa had never taken these rooms as her own. From the look of things, she did not even send servants in to clean. It was all very queer.

Hans did make sure the rooms were truly empty – he checked under the bed and in the wardrobe, in the drawers of the desk in the study, but there was nothing to be found except more dust. Even the personal belongings were gone.

He didn't have any clue as to the layout of the floor, so back in the hallway he moved left, on a whim, checking each door. There were two more bedrooms, both apparently unused – the royal family must at one point have been larger – before he found, in the third, evidence of life. And that life appeared rather exuberant, unkempt, and expressive; the room was awash in even more colors and textures than the rest of the castle.

There were clothes on the floor, on the bed; a wardrobe with one door hanging half open and more clothes spilling out; a vanity whose surface was covered in pots and tins and lengths of ribbon and brushes and combs, all of it scattered untidily around, no sense of order at all. There was an easel by the window, but no sign of anything to use on it, a child's doll-sized castle in the corner, a messy pile of books near the unmade bed. On the floor near the window was a curious discoloration of the wood, almost like a scorch mark or a deep stain.

This, he surmised ruefully, must be Anna's room.

He didn't expect to find much here either, but he looked. More clothes shoved in unlikely places, books under the bench of the vanity, a ledger and a sketchbook under the bed – these last he took the time to flip through. But the sketchbook was full of crudely-done, half-finished sketches in charcoal, mostly of birds and trees, and the ledger began as a diary until about a week in, when Anna apparently decided to try her hand at a story. All Hans could glean from it was that Anna had terrible penmanship, that her daily life was rather dull (and she seemed aware of this), and that she liked romance novels. Judging from the little that was there, perhaps she truly had been ignorant of what Elsa could do – Elsa was hardly mentioned at all.

There was nothing else of interest, though he was not surprised; Anna did not seem the particularly perceptive type. When they were married, Hans thought, she would make a fine hostess at parties and dinners, but the more intricate details of governing would need to be left to him. She would probably be thrilled.

Opening the door of the next room, his breath caught – this had to be it. Much tidier than the last, but still clearly in use – more things on the vanity, but these carefully sorted and arranged. A nightdress draped at the foot of the bed, but neatly, as if laid out for someone at the end of a long, trying day. A stack of books on the corner of a surprisingly masculine-looking desk, a thing of heavy oak and deep drawers. There were two wardrobes. The walls and furnishings were less garish, and there were no nostalgic remnants of childhood openly retained _here_.

Elsa's room.

Hans entered slowly, almost cautiously, taking in the whole of it. The library might have provided some additional clues, but here – here he would find answers. He could sense it, as strong as the scent from the vase of roses dropping petals on the smooth surface of that enormous desk.

The desk was where he began his search. He opened the drawers one by one, left to right, top to bottom. The first two were just writing supplies – pens and nibs and bottles of ink on one side; sheaves of thick, cleanly-cut paper on the other, as well as a small book with lists of names and ranks and homelands of royal and aristocratic families from what appeared to be half of Europe. The penmanship here was small, neat, even – Elsa's? He suspected that it was. He found his own family several pages in, but only his three eldest brothers and their children were listed along with their father.

Nothing of any use there. Hans returned the book to the drawer and shut it away again.

The next drawer contained reports, as well as notes meticulously detailing when each had been completed, by whom, when it had been copied and delivered or received. Most appeared to be mundane, boring matters that would require little attention from the queen herself, but it looked like she not only handled them, she actually drafted the majority herself, in her own hand. Plenty of time if she was really was reclusive as Anna said, he realized. The drawer after had a similar, though smaller pile, apparently work she still had to do.

But the bottom two – they had locks on them. Hans pulled hard, hoping they would be as flimsy as most of the clasps women seemed to favor, but they were as masculine as the furniture. He considered them, knowing he could quite easily pick them, but it would take more precious time when he'd already used the better part of an hour – perhaps best to come back if there was time?

For the moment, the wardrobes – it was possible she just had so many clothes she needed two, but he was going to make sure. And the one closest to the door was, indeed, stuffed with dresses, jackets, high-necked bodices in harsh shades of blue, gray, crimson, purple. So much for someone seen so little, but he understood the importance of being prepared to dress for any possibility.

The second wardrobe was full of packing crates, stacked floor to ceiling and two rows deep.

Hans smiled, and began pulling them out, one by one. He suspected his back and arms would hurt miserably tomorrow, but that was a concern for then. For now, he knew he had found his treasure – and it contained more riches than he could ever have imagined.

When he had several crates before him, he considered for a moment before picking one at random and prying off the lid. It was full of paper – loose sheets, bundles tied with string, journals, ledgers, paper of all shapes and sizes and colors and consistencies. Some were printed material, others script – the same small, neat handwriting he assumed was Elsa's, or a larger, messier, more masculine hand.

"My god," Hans whispered. He looked at the boxes around him, the ones still in the wardrobe – they couldn't possibly all be like this. He pulled the lid off another; this one had old clothes, and another held what looked like a child's schoolwork. But a third contained more paper; another, books on magic and alchemy and human health; the last full of leatherbound diaries. Removing one of these at random, he saw that pages in it were marked – and opening to one of these, he thought he understood why:

_June 24 – Met with Adm. Bransson regarding the shipment. Concern is for the safety of the crew. Regarding cargo, deferred to his advice. Parliament to be informed on the morrow._

_Bad day for Elsa. Likely related to physical concern. Somewhat successful at breathing technique. I fear that she will injure herself, though the protective element of the manifestations remains and has thus far seen to her bodily well-being. If only it could do the same for her mind!_

_Met with Lord Aebereth regarding shipment from..._

Reaching the end of the page, Hans flipped to another marked section:

_November 27 – Continued difficulties for Elsa. Perhaps change in weather more affective than she will admit (?). Glass in her window cracked again. Request for replacement. Dependent upon snow regarding arrival. Attempted to provide distraction via new schoolbooks. She says she is eager to begin her studies of Latin. Perhaps will see to additional language tutoring._

Hans tried one more page – just to be sure. Elsa again, now only a line about her absence at a formal dinner, and regret that Anna was too young to attend despite begging to do so. Another journal picked at random seemed to be from several years earlier, but every page that mentioned Elsa was marked again. It was the same larger handwriting he had seen in the box of papers – it had to be the king's. And he suspected Elsa herself had been the one to meticulously comb these pages of her father's diaries. Every mention of her own name, she had noted.

How very interesting.

But the random entries he had looked at were – considering the nature of the subject matter – rather mundane. He looked again to one of the boxes of loose paper, pulling out a printed sheet that appeared torn from a book:

_What we see in such manifestations is a physical embodiment of a humoral imbalance, specifically of a choleric nature, as Lucretius de Avila discussed in his 1352 treatise __On Magick Following God's Great Purge__, the magic being, he believed, a result of an increase in choler following the plagues that had so recently besieged Europe. After the plagues, many wanted to blame already-persecuted minority groups, and "trolls" were no exception – e.g., the destruction of several mountain villages in the Holy Roman Empire following outbreaks there, believed to have led to the death of several hundred individuals. The apparent increase in the appearance of unusual abilities, then, might be to a man of modern scientific mind better accounted for by theorizing that, as was the case with the Hebrew peoples in Europe during periods of greatest persecution, those among the trolls able to do so chose to live among the people of cities and towns as if citizens, but with their magical properties still extant, at times manifest. If they were otherwise considered denizens of no great import, it is likely – indeed, almost certain – that reports of magic were not linked to anything in the people themselves, but rather, to a more external explanation – viz., humoral imbalance._

There were notes in the margin, in Elsa's handwriting: _1812, (date?), Sir Aleister Benton of England – entirety at Cambridge? Find out more – additional information on manifestations, 1350s? Reactions? __Ultimate Fates__? _The last was underlined darkly, so heavily the ink had splotched at the end – very unlike Elsa's usual, meticulous handwriting. So it was fate she feared – Hans was not surprised, but he tucked this tidbit of information away nonetheless.

Another sheet of paper, this one in the masculine writing again:

_Trans. received from S. des Tes., one A.G. (?). Believes prophecy originated in Scandinavia, due to Nordic Tsandskiyi appearing in oldest extant copies. Still uncertain of meaning "svertha" (sword/shard?) and the import of seasonal hints. Believes to be broader than here, already in place, but what is E.'s role? Has she one? Knowns: winter, spreading of effects, eternal/eternity (?). Oldest trans. use "hjarta" (heart) for "jartavil," but "víf" (commoner) for "argrandil," not likely a ruler (?), but certainly feminine (?). S. des Tes. believe a Latin trans. from Visigothic sources – possibly available in Italian peninsula. Being pursued. Will provide copy (?)._

And below, in Elsa's hand: _Does not appear to have been received. Or destroyed? Perhaps confirmed. Still uncertain of 'S. des Tres'._ The note was dated from the year before.

Hans was fascinated, absolutely fascinated. People in the city square yesterday had been going on about a prophecy; he had dismissed it as superstitious nonsense. And likely it was, but if Elsa herself was aware of it, seemingly sought information about it as much as she sought information on magic, then he wanted to know more.

He was getting concerned about time – but he wanted a copy of this prophecy. He considered the crate before him, but he couldn't get through it all, not before daybreak. The books – it must be printed somewhere. He moved to another crate, began unpacking books on magic, on history, on physical sciences, on human anatomy and physiology.

And one small volume, faded cloth cover fraying along the spine: _On the Prediction of Future Events by the Tsandski of the Mountains of Arendelle._

Hans smiled and tucked it into his pocket – this one, he wanted to be able to study later, at his leisure. Until then, it was time to pack everything back as he had found it. He would get through it all, eventually, but there was much to do until then.

After all, today might be his chance. He was beholden to no prophecy – only to a kingdom that needed him.

His work had just begun.

He had never felt so capable.


End file.
